Small Hands
by QuixoticAstronaut
Summary: With the presence of the past, can you get to the future? Naomi hurts. Emily is stuck.
1. Flesh and Bone

**I: Flesh and Bone**

_And I am rude and unkind-_  
_have no thought, and have no time,_  
_have no eyes, so no point of view._

_And my body's weak,_  
_I feel my heart giving up on me._  
_I'm worried it might just be_  
_my body's weak,_  
_feel my lungs giving up on me._  
_I'm worried it might just be_  
_something my soul needs._

The walls of the attic stirred and stretched like an old dog after a nap on a cold and hard floor while it rained. The storm shifted from vertical to slanted in the slight breeze, and the attic seemed to do the same at times. It creaked and moaned and sobbed under the strain of shifting joints. I ignored the noises and focused on the papers that carpeted the wooden floor. An old television scattered grayscale flickers across the walls and floor and boxes and papers quietly and with a certain lack of clarity that came from my displacement of its rabbit-eared antenna after shifting boxes near it a few days ago. Or hours ago. Or sometime between those two estimations.

I ignored it and wrote and filled pages and scraps and refused to leave. My toes froze from the whines of wind coming from every direction, never allowing the heat to rise to the uppermost room.

"Are you going to hide away all night, love?" my mother's voice startled me from my daze. It might have been sleep; a nod while I worked, not conscious, not un. It was probably a moment of pure shut down.

"You scared me," I felt my hand on my chest after it had already leapt there. My heart was too tired to sprint too far. She smiled from her position against the wall at the top of the stairs. I wanted to ask her if it was crooked.

"I'm sorry," she chuckled slightly. I drank her in. "I was just worried. It's getting late. It's after midnight, you know." I looked at my watch. It was not my watch. It had been my father's watch. It had been his father's watch. It had been his father's watch, and he had won it in a game of cards from a man who had inherited it from his father, who was given it by his watchmaker grandfather on his sixteenth birthday.

My mother wore my father's jeans, holey and faded and rolled up at the bottom. His sweatshirt hung on her shoulders and was rolled up to the elbows. It'd been her uniform for years on days when she would drag all of the rugs to the backyard and beat them with all of her might, then not have the energy to heave them back until the next mornings. She wore that outfit on days when pencils tucked behind her ear and she sat at her old typewriter at the giant desk in the shared study, surrounded by books and articles and research and painstakingly pecked out her thoughts about this or that or this and that. Sometimes she wore it when she lounged on the front sunroom, and kicked her feet over the edge of the chair and alternated between her crossword puzzle book and the newspaper itself while shouting into the house at me for answers to some I might know. She wore it on Tuesday mornings when she wasn't in class, and the sun would shine, and she'd pull the bicycles from the cluttered garage and make me race her through town, to the park, across campus, between buildings where her colleagues and students looked at us zoom by in wonder with amusement, not imagining her in anything other than her normal professional attire. She'd wear it while looking over my shoulder at my notebooks when I would be lost in thought, writing and thinking and not processing the basic need to breathe but simply feel her presence not understanding what was happening, but still trying and loving me all at once, and instead set a glass of lemonade down for me to discover later. But never when it rained.

"Happy Birthday, Naomi," she gave me a bigger smile. "Please tell me you're not spending it here all alone."

"I'm not alone," I shook my head and looked back at my floor. My toes were cold. "You're here."

"I don't count," she moved, surveying the work. "I'm your mum. You should go out."

"One has to have friends to go out," I smirked to myself.

"Oh, you have friends," she scolded. "You've known Effy since you were in diapers."

"She doesn't count," I sighed. I turned over my shoulder as she circled. She was quiet.

"You're worrying me, sweetheart," she finally started. I had seen this before and I had heard this all. I looked at the ground, slightly ashamed.

"How old was he?" I looked back. "When it all started to go downhill?"

"Oh, Naomi, don't think about that," she was motherly sympathy. "It's not genetics you know. It might not be. You're not crazy."

"He was a bit older than me," I reminded her. "I don't remember."

"Twenty-seven," she offered, walking and looking out the small window across from me. She pulled down the sleeves against a chill. "But you're not crazy, Naomi. You're perfectly sane. Crazy people don't worry about being crazy." She gave me a smile. "They're way too busy wearing mismatched slippers and waiting for the martians." I drank her in like I was physically thirsty, and all I wanted to do was stick my hands out the window behind her, cup the water that was simply drenching the night, and glug it greedily. I wanted to stand in it and be soaked. I drank her in.

"You never wear Dad's old clothes when it rains," I observed. She looked down at her outfit and shrugged noncommittally. "It doesn't make sense."

"I never wanted you to worry about being like him," she continued. "He loved you, so much."

"You don't even come up here either," I slowly tried to stand despite the sleep in my legs and the painful tingle and bite that accompanied the warning of a lack of sufficient blood supply to my limbs. "You shout from the landing."

"Well, what then, love?" she stood near where she started at the non-slanted, slanted wall.

"It doesn't make sense," I repeated, staggered.

"I'm dead," she stated.

"Never when it rains," I remembered. "In the sun."

"My girl," she smiled.

"You died five days ago," I regained my feet to stagger back to the edge of an old chair's arm.

"Car accident," she supplied.

I felt my hand on my chest, pushing on my sternum, willing it to either break or suffocate me all the same.

"The funeral is tomorrow," I finished. I closed my eyes and inhaled thirstily. It made me want to stare at the sky, as turkeys are known to do in thunderstorms, drowning themselves in the rain from sheer stupidity and wonder. I pushed harder.

My mother was dead. It was unexpected. It was uncalled for and such. People filled the answering machine and mailbox and foyer with flowers and plates of food. The university circled like vultures. Her intern set up camp in the study, reading journals and notes before I never boxed them and instead left them to sit in their exact same place forever. And I had been up here, since the knock on the door. The pages were filled with gibberish, I was sure. Formulas and proofs reproduced as my brain mechanically eliminated any need to think of anything other than the clearly defined limits of the unchartable and incalculable.

"Naomi?" A voice came from the same spot as my mother's. But it was not hers. She was gone. I hadn't opened my eyes, but locked them tighter in another surprise moment. My heart was sick of sprinting, but it leapt again, into my throat and through my lungs. I was dizzy. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I ran my hands along my cheeks, under my eyes and over my ears to make sure I was hearing. I stared at my knees, and watched her appear slowly up the stairs, as if she were approaching a wild animal.

"I'm sorry to intrude," she started. "I thought I heard voices, and I knew you were alone." It was quiet. The walls sobbed under the pushing and pulling of the wind outside. I felt unsteady despite still leaning on the arm of the chair. "I hope you don't mind," she began again. I looked at her finally. I barely remembered her knocking on the door after the police. She had the same big brown pity eyes. "I brewed some tea in the kitchen, if you'd like to have a cup, I could bring it up, or if you'd like to come down..." I watched her try not to appraise me or the mess on the floor or the misshapen stacks like a tiny ghost metropolis of papers and boxes around my crater in the center.

"Did you finish up in the study?" I ignored her question and eyes. My chest constricted as I looked around the room.

"No, actually," she sighed. "I actually couldn't bring myself to go in, if that makes sense."

"What have you been doing here?" I snapped. "You said you wanted to collect some notes to continue my mother's study."

"I did!" she took a step up earnestly. "I just... I couldn't."

"Have you been here the whole time?" I stood and looked at her. I wish I'd thought to remember her name. Or try. Or care. She nodded.

"Off and on," she looked guilty. "I tried to go in. It just felt intrusive. I put the food in the fridge for you, and left plates, but they were always there the next morning."

I ignored her worry and suddenly couldn't stand the attic. I couldn't stand it's uneasiness. I couldn't stand its redundant calculations and drudged up notebooks and the television that I wanted to watch, and instead zoned into and was lost in the static for hours at a time between nothing. I swallowed and walked down the stairs without looking back or at her when I passed.

I walked down the hall of the upstairs and marched to my mother's room. I saw her bed made as it had been. Her inherited sweatshirt was thrown across the chair. Half of the bed was stacked with books and papers. Her glasses sat on the nightstand. I closed the door.

I stopped in the bathroom. She had her own, en suite, but this one was full of her odds and ends. Her towel hung on the rack. I touched it. It wasn't damp. Her contact case sat on the edge of the sink. I lurched towards the toilet and tried to vomit. I heaved nothing. I spit. I heaved and I spit and I hurt in my very guts.

"You haven't eaten anything," the voice started again. I heaved again and turned my head towards the wall away from the door where I knew she was standing. My knees hurt from kneeling on the cold tile. My toes were still frozen. I wondered if they were blue. I was irrationally afraid to look. "Can I make you a plate."

"Why are you still here if you haven't touched the study?" I stood enough to dizzily stagger and sit on the edge of the tub. I pushed my hair and pulled on my scalp slightly, before wiping my forearm across my mouth.

"I'm sorry to intrude," she repeated. "I don't mean to overstep. Can I make you tea? It was dreadfully cold up there." I stared at her and felt hateful for no reason.

"Are you real?!" I screamed. She stopped talking. "You're real, so you answer! I'm sick of no one answering!" I felt hoarse. I wanted to stick my neck out the window and be a turkey until I had a belly filled with a lake. "It's simple!"

I watched her eyes enlarge. I watched her learn fear.

"I was just..." she stuttered. "I tried to tell you I couldn't. I can't explain. I am sorry. I really am."

"Stop apologizing."

"I'm sorry," she muttered. I felt the hole grow in my diaphragm. The rain slithered down the window.

I stood after a few moments and walked down the stairs again, brushing past her and staring at the ground. I heard her follow because she hit the creaky step, three from the top. She had slower and measure steps though.

The kitchen was immaculate. I stood in the middle. The windows sagged under the rain outside.

"Where's the coffee cup?" I said to no one. "It's supposed to be right here," I pointed at the island.

"I washed the dishes, and cleaned. It's a nervous habit. When things are bad," she shrugged, explaining with run on elaboration. "I clean. I wipe and I disinfect, and I put things away. It's a burrowing instinct, to sort of just set my heels and tell the world to stop, you know? I just cleaned. I scraped plates when you didn't come down. You still have a ton of food though in the fridge. Not many groceries though, so it might be good-"

"No, it is supposed to be right here. She leaves it here," I pointed again and stared at the empty spot. "It sits right here. She has a cup in the morning over the paper, and she makes sure that she pulls the ads from the paper, and the newspaper is here, always." I pointed to the immaculate island.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"No, it's supposed to be here," I repeated. "It doesn't make sense, does it?" I asked her, finally turning to look at her shrunken form in the hall, afraid to enter the kitchen.

"You're mother died five days ago," she said simply. I was still.

I nodded and sat at the stool. I traced the grout with my finger. The rain kissed the windows with a breeze. The girl was quiet, and tried not to move for a few moments. I saw her move about finally, entering the kitchen timidly, treading with a lead belly. She put the kettle on and put a mug in front of me. I didn't have the energy to find words. I couldn't form them if I wanted. I didn't watch her. She poured hot water into the mug a second later.

"This will help you sleep," she explained. "Can I heat you up some food?"

I couldn't answer. I knitted my eyebrows into my forehead and stared at the mug now. The girl didn't wait to hear my answer. She watched me watch the grout and try to dissect it into molecules, though she probably didn't know that part. Slowly, always slowly, she moved to the fridge. I heard the clank of glass. I blew on the water robotically. It came easily. People died, but you still had to do mundane things like blow on tea so you don't burn your tongue. It didn't make sense.

"I'm not sure who brought this," she moved to find plates and silverware. "I wrote down names on a list for you to make cards." I smiled into my mug for a moment. One moment. I wouldn't have thought to write cards. I would have let the food rot. My mum would have wrote cards. "But I had some of this the other night. It's quite good. And light. Maybe something light on your stomach will help." She chattered.

I stared at the food when presented with it. She made herself a plate and sat across from me. It was far away on purpose. My limbs didn't want to work. The fork felt fumbled in my hands. I picked it up and sat it down on the edge of the plate. I picked up the mug without drinking.

"I can't," I sighed. I looked at her for help. "I just can't." I swallowed roughly. She was mid-bite. I watched her chew, hand in front of her mouth out of politeness. Her jaw moved slowly as she mulled. She put her fork down as well. I was afraid I forgot. I was afraid I didn't know anything suddenly, and I wanted to run to the attic.

"I know," she nodded. She picked up her fork and looked at the food, eating again. I looked at my plate.

Eventually, I ate. I didn't taste, but I ate. The girl looked up at me slightly. I saw it when I looked up at her slightly. Neither of us raised our heads. The few bites I had felt like wooly lead lumps in my stomach so I stopped. The tea didn't dissolve them. She took the plates, scraped them, and set them in the sink. I stared at the grout.

"I think I should go now," the girl said. She was quiet. I wondered if it was because I yelled at her unfairly. "Will you be alright?" I nodded.

She took a few steps towards the door, paused, and turned back.

"When can I come back?" she wrung her hands. I felt her watch me. I felt disgusted. "I still have to look at the notes. How about tomorrow?"

"Funeral tomorrow."

"I know that," she took a step forward. "I'm sorry. I just... I should have already. The semester is halfway over, and now..."

"Can't you just get out?!" I yelled. "I didn't have to let you in here."

"You wouldn't have noticed," she fired back.

"I understand my mother's death really throws a kink in your graduate life," I snarled. I was mean. I stalked to the other side of the kitchen. My toes were frozen. "But you need to leave."

"I didn't mean any disrespect," she took a step forward. I paced like a caged animal.

"Get out!" I shouted. I didn't want to go into the attic. I didn't want to be here, but I couldn't leave the house.

"Naomi..." she began again. "It won't make sense, but I really loved your mother. She changed... she just... she... what she did... for me... she..." I watched her eyes turn to glass. It made me more mad.

I threw my mug of tea at the wall beside the fridge. It ricocheted in shrapnel across the room. She stared at me. I seethed.

"Don't!" I accented it. The physicality of it felt good. I remembered the rugs. I watched her mouth try to stammer. "Just get out!" I filled for her. I threw the stool at the island across the room into a corner. She stood still and watched. I banged my fists against the tiles on the island. I lost my breath. I continued to pound. I hurled another stool. I smashed the jars holding sugar and flour and tea and coffee. Swiped my arms over the counter and threw them as hard as I could. They exploded like bombs around the kitchen. "Why aren't you gone yet?!" I raged. I punched and hit what I could. I destroyed. I felt blood trickle down my arms. My muscles burned with exhaustion and tiredness. I cowered. I pulled my arms up and covered my ears. I hurt. I rocked.

I curled into myself and slunk to my haunches behind the island between it and the sink. The floor was covered in glass and bits of wood. I murmured.

"Feel better?" she asked, crouching near me carefully. She pushed aside debris from her path. "It feels good to just... be exhausted in your bones, doesn't it?" I ignored her and covered my ears not to hear her. "You're bleeding," she observed. "Come on," I saw her stand from the corner of my eye. I couldn't move. The burn in my thighs was addicting. I felt her hands under my elbows, pulling. I didn't have the energy to pull away or stand, but her tiny frame heaved me up. I didn't look at anything. I stared at my feet. At our feet, moving through salt and flour and sugar. Her hands never left my elbows. My knuckles dripped.

The girl stationed me in front of the mirror as she ran a bath. I saw blood smeared on my face, across my temple, into my hair. I saw my eyes, weighed down by black circles that looked as if I'd been punched. I didn't want to look. But I stared.

"These might need stitches," the girl observed. I hadn't realized she was holding my arms, observing the gashes. She prodded the tender flesh. "This will hurt," she observed, dropping them softly and checking the water.

Slowly, she pulled my shirt over my head. I was dusty and dirty and grimy. It got thrown in the hamper with my mother's clothes. I pulled my hands from her as she held my wrists and moved her. They clutched over my chest.

"It's okay," she cooed softly. "Come here," she shifted slightly. She pushed my jeans and underwear down and pulled me gently forward to step out of them. She held my arm as I stepped into the bath. The water continued to run. I stared at the gush meeting the tub. She held my arms parallel to the ground, not letting them touch the water. The water scalded. I understood why my mother couldn't bring rugs in until the next mornings.

Gingerly, she knelt beside the tub and dipped the rag in the water. She cleaned the blood from my arms and hands, dipping between fingers, wiping softly. I hissed when she reached the gashes finally. I saw flour and powder and dirt and grit in the scratches and that didn't wipe away in the form of bruises. I saw the concentration on her face to try to minimize the pain.

"Do you have bandages?" she finally asked as she let my hands finally rest in the water. It hurt. I stared at them under the water. She stood after waiting for an answer that wouldn't come. She returned some minutes later, after the water had cooled slightly. It was still warm and turned my skin pink, but it was not as hurtful.

Slowly again, she dipped the rag and ran it on along the side of my face. She scrubbed at the blood that had matted itself in my hair. She wiped and cleansed. I felt the weight of the rag on my neck and shoulders, down my back. It left a trail of lukewarm water that froze in the air. She washed my legs and chest, bent my knees and washed away the muck. I tucked my legs higher to cover me in a move of unconscious modesty. She tilted my head. Her eyes were not seeing either. She was simply doing, and deeply involved in it. She poured water over my hair. I stared blankly at the ceiling, no long involved in anything. I pushed her away when she tried to use my mother's shampoo. She pushed back. She never scolded though. She just did it. That was all the resistance I had in me. She scrubbed. I closed my eyes against possible suds. She rinsed and drained the water. She lifted me and wrapped me in a towel to sit me on the toilet. She covered my arms in butterfly bandages and ointment.

I wanted to stand, and walk past her as I had before. I wanted to escape to another room, and remain perfectly still at the same time.

"There we go," she whispered. My hair was cold against my neck. She held my knuckles and surveyed them. She prodded and pushed and I winced but never uttered a sound. "Come on," she said again. I followed. She slipped sweats over my hips. She pulled a shirt over my head and dried my hair slightly followed by a brush.

"It's going to be okay," she promised. "It really sucks now, though." I sat on the couch. I stared at the television she'd turned on.

"I hurt," I didn't blink.

"I know."

I fell asleep.


	2. The Aftermath

**II. The Aftermath**

_Our silence hides nothing  
In this truce before sleep  
One can hear the creaking of ghosts  
Of no shape or hue  
I'll admit I've used all the wrong words  
To position myself_

The church was full of people in various states of mourning and grief.

The rain only magnified the bereft and sombre old venue, with its ancient stone walls and tall columns that felt, at the same time, both full and empty. The stained glass windows held a steady drumlike beat with tiny plops of half-hearted raindrops, and I couldn't think of a better music selection for a funeral. The murmurs in the pews occasionally distracted me enough to lose the beats, but I simply looked at the waterlogged saint on the window and found it again, remembering reverence.

I looked over the heads of the people around me towards the front. The black mob seemed to spread into every area, and the lack of color was almost painful. I had to scrounge to find an acceptable dress. I picked at the hem absently and tried not to look at anyone for fear of meeting their eyes and having to force a wave or a banal, politically tinted academic conversation.

I'd thought about ditching. That sounded horrible to even think about, but I had considered it for longer than I'm proud to admit. I could have been in her study, doing what I should have been over the past five days. I should have been finishing the preliminary work she'd requested. I should have gone back, re-destroyed the kitchen, and left Naomi to her own devices. But something wouldn't let me leave. I had to sit on the hard pew, and I had to listen and remember and take just a few minutes. The burial was for family only, so the wake would start in the afternoon. People would congregate at the house, and slip into her study. I was hurt and I was scared, but I wouldn't leave. She'd been my mentor. She'd been many things and done as much for me. I could sit here and not worry. I would sit here and feel pure sorrow. I had to, because I was prone to ignore such things, and that was not being alive. Not fully.

The priest began with a deep and heavy voice that echoed slightly through the cathedral. He spoke about Dr. Campbell's hard work and contributions to her field, her contributions to a certain morality that seemed to be a simple example of goodness. I stared at the hymnal glued to the back of the pew in front of me and tried not to yawn. I felt the disrespect in my bones if I did, and I could never desecrate this with that, despite the fact that I believed it was some of her goodness she would have advocated that kept me awake. The fact that she was being remembered, reminded me that she was gone, and that was difficult.

Soon, the priest switched to her contributions to humanity, to her life, to the person I realized I knew nothing about at all despite the six years I'd spent working with her, learning from her. I felt unjustly cheated at that. It wasn't fair. She wasn't my mother.

I found the back of her daughter's head in the front row. It was bent and staring at her lap. I wondered how her arms were feeling. They'd been tattered to hell, but I'd done my best to fix them up. When she finally fell asleep on the couch, I did my best to clean up the kitchen as well, and I felt that went much better. In all honesty, the sight of blood made me queasy. But she reminded me of a deer who had been struck and was limping along the shoulder.

Thunder rumbled outside. I looked to the saint that hid the weather, as if I'd see the noise and clouds outside, plotting and raining. I didn't understand what made me stay, last night. It might have been her eyes when I startled her in the attic. They reminded me of a child, afraid of the dark and jumpy at the night and unexplainable. The sharp blue didn't hurt either, wounded and fierce at the same time. I think it was her anger, and my fear of it in so many different contexts. It might have been the debt I felt from her mother seeing me cry and giving me her literal shoulder a few times over the course of our work together. I wanted to believe that it was just a blind hope that if I ever felt that much pain, someone would let me destroy a room, clean me up, and tell me that it would be alright eventually.

"Gina was honest," a speaker took over for the priest. There was a small murmur of approval. "She had a subtle humor that kept me on my toes, and a firm sense of who she was that I always envied. I remember her first week after she married her husband, she came into my office," the professor laughed, already knowing what would happen. "And she swore up and down that she would never cook again. She had made dinner for the first time, proud of herself, and asked him what he thought about it. He mumbled, in a way that Henry was known to do, that it was fine, and that was it. She comes back the next day, upset that he didn't even realize she was upset. I told her to calm down, and that he might not know. But the kicker was, she finally admitted that she was a horrible cook anyway. I told her, 'Gina, you're just working yourself up,' and she stared straight at me and said, 'I know I am, I'm the best one at it. Doesn't mean I like it'."

I watched Naomi stand from the front row and walk down the aisle, her feet pattering along, quicker as she got to the exit. The speaker stalled for a moment and continued after the door creaked and shut with a thud that reverberated in the chairs. I debated and felt torn until I slouched my way out of the back, along the side of the church, following.

I had been doing many things I did not understand since I learned of Gina's death. I figured it was the human reaction to the inescapable and unexplainable. That was a sort of justification.

As I reached the rain I looked to see if I could find Naomi, but the blonde evaded me. I looked up and down the damp road, only to see the usual activities of cars and traffic and such. I turned and touched the door, but was reluctant to return, so I walked away after pulling my umbrella out.

I spent hours walking in loops that grew larger and more haphazard as I continued. I tried not to think of anything, but the past week sort of played on repeat in my mind, continually tinged with the sadness of remembering I couldn't ask Gina for advice.

By the time I made it back to her house on the edge of campus, it was full of mourners. I could see through the windows the suits and dresses and dull color choices mixed with various glasses of alcohol. I felt unwelcome after my uncouth behavior in asking Naomi when I could return to actually look through Gina's notes. The house, full and bursting with people felt foreign, and I actually longed for the hours I spent standing in the office, unable to touch anything, and the longer amount of time I spent cleaning and listening to Naomi's footsteps in the attic.

"Hello, Ms. Finch," an old professor greeted me, and helped me out of my raincoat.

"Good evening, Dr. Lewis," I gave him a polite smile. "Thank you."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," he offered as I slowly made my way in from the sun room. "A mentor is a difficult loss at any point." His words made me wince.

"She was amazing," I simply answered. I dismissed myself, wove through the crowd, and poured myself a glass of scotch. I downed it quickly and refilled the glass as I surveyed the room. I still didn't see Naomi. I figured she might still be at the cemetery. I wish I could have been. That felt like the only place to properly mourn. This wasn't it. This room, this floor, these people. This was politics.

The stairs were roped off, so I slipped into the kitchen. I learned the old house quite well. The caterers moved plates about on silver trays and down the hall, through the swinging door. The kitchen showed no signs of what happened the night before, after I'd cleaned it. I drank my glass again and grabbed an unopened bottle from the catering tray before slowly sneaking up the back stairs. I felt the burn on my throat. I felt it slip down into my empty belly.

I couldn't understand where they day disappeared to, and I couldn't understand where my head had gone.

I opened the door to the office at the end of the stairs.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I muttered when I saw Naomi's form leaning on the edge of the desk, staring at the bookcase.

"Really?" she sighed, blinking and not looking at me. I saw her head shake slightly. I noticed that she moved nothing around either.

"I didn't think anyone would be..." I started. I didn't know how to finish.

"No one should be up here," she looked at the ground. "Especially you." Her mumble was worse than when she screamed at me.

"How are your arms?" I threw back at her. I watched her look at them and run her hands over the bandages.

I closed the door and handed her my glass.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "That was uncalled for."

"I'm not sure," she shook her head and sipped the drink, wincing as she drank.

I stood in front of the desk while she turned from me and looked at the bookshelf. She traced the spine of a few books and emptied the rest of the glass. I watched her eyes squinch shut. The white bandages stuck out on her arms as they crossed in front of her black dress. Her hair was damp, and curling, and her eyes were red and wet as well. The entirety of the day seemed to weigh heavy in these moments.

"I am sorry," I repeated after a moment of being distracted by her. "May I?" I took a step towards her. She stuttered slightly and reluctantly handed me her arms. I traced her forearm, checking the bandages, pressing lightly on the bruises. "They don't look bad. Have you changed these?" Naomi nodded. I held her hand and stared at her knuckles. A few seconds later she pulled her hand from mine and hurried to the desk to refill her glass.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, gulping and hissing from her glass. "Are there still a lot of people downstairs?"

"Still full," I answered. I took another swig from the bottle. She stared at me, ducked her head, looked at the opposite corner, looked over my shoulder, ran her hand through her hair, ducked it again. "I didn't have anywhere to go." I paused. "That's not right, I could go home," I rambled. "I just... I left the ceremony early, because it all just felt off, and I saw you left, but you were gone when I got outside, so I walked around, and I couldn't go home just yet. I owed it to Gina, to just be here, for her, because I don't think many are down there. I know her friends are, but the faculty, I just..."

"Why are you up here though?" Naomi asked, flopping into the chair behind the desk. Her long legs stuck out and stretched. She rested her cheek in her palm.

"I got to the house, and realized I hated it all full," I topped of her glass, grabbed the bottle, and retreated to the window seat. "So I came up here. I wasn't going to touch anything. I still can't." I looked at my lap. I realized I had tears falling on my hands. I laughed. I kept laughing as I wiped my cheeks and tears kept coming down my cheeks.

"I miss my mom," Naomi offered. Her eyes were on the other side of the room, staring at the wall. "Sometimes I miss my dad. I don't want the missing to fade like it did for him."

I'd heard about her family. Everyone had, of course. It was legend. Gina, the wonderfully accomplished professor. She was kind and perfect and loving and smart. She worked with charities, she changed the world, she published articles, thoughtfully remembered birthdays, and never remarried. From all accounts, she was a wonderful mother. She beamed about her daughter, even when talking to me. She treated me kindly, and mothered me as well. They didn't make many like her. Naomi's father was somewhat more of a mystery. He was an author who was at the top of most lists, put out tons of material, and for all intents and purposes, they were a power couples of academia. He taught and wrote, she wrote and researched. They raised Naomi in the house of her grandfather on the edge of old campus. Reports were that he slowly lost it. He saw things, he locked himself away, he found paranoia. He hung himself in his office on a rainy thursday.

We both laughed because there was nothing else we could do.

"I'm sorry" I asked as we calmed to quiet. Naomi looked thoughtful.

"I'm not sure," she mulled. "I didn't even remember she died until last night." She was dazed again.

"Would you like another?" I held up the bottle. Naomi nodded, stood and sat on the floor beside me. I filled up her glass. Drinking wouldn't solve anything. I just hoped that it would make things easier for a few hours.

"Can I worry a bit?" I asked after we both drank. I heard people downstairs, mulling about, cars leaving, doors opening and closing.

"About what?" she looked up at me.

"You."

"I'm sure you have better things to do," she looked away again.

"You don't even know my name," I drank again. She stopped moving for a moment, took another swig, handed me her glass. I was trying to convince myself that I didn't have to worry about her.

"Emily Fitch," she finally started after another sip of her freshly refilled glass. "Graduate student. Started pre-med, went psychology after that. My mother had high hopes for you. She said you were kind. I think that's my favorite thing for someone to be. Most people aren't actually kind."

"I wouldn't..."

"Your family died. A long time ago." I drank. "Except for your sister. Mom said it was amazing you made it to where you were."

"You knew me all along?"

"Vaguely," she shook her head. "I remembered this morning."

"Gina wanted me to meet you, a few times," I offered in our quiet. She rested her head against my leg. I drank again. "She said we both needed friends." Naomi chuckled.

"I apologize for last night," she offered.

"When my parents died, I didn't move for three days, and then I took a bat, and I broke the car. I beat it to hell. It helped."

"I wish everyone would leave."

"They will," I promised.

We sat there quietly.

The rain still quietly dabbled against the window behind me. I suddenly grew restless. The weight of the day grew heavier on my chest. It might have been the scotch. I stood and perused the shelves. I'd done this all week. Hours, days all melded together, and I couldn't touch Gina's desk. I couldn't turn a page. I stared at its contents, and I tried to think of what she saw when she left them there. I don't know how that would have helped, but I just was stuck.

Various books were uncategorized throughout the shelves. Pictures acted as book ends, each different, each wondrous. I greedily soaked them in, and felt guilty as I did.

"That's my best friend," Naomi pointed at a frame. "We practically lived on the swings when we were kids."

"This is her too?" I asked, referencing another frame that looked like graduation day. Naomi nodded.

"She won't come home til everyone is gone," Naomi explained, drinking more. Her pretty blue eyes were rimmed with red. "She hates people."

It was quiet again. Both of us afraid to leave the room, afraid to say anything, growing more and more drunk, and thus both less and more inhibited to open our mouths and say anything at all. I wanted to apologize for requesting that meeting with her mom. I wanted to really tell her how much I liked her blue eyes, and how they kept me calm, when all I wanted to do was scratch my own skin off and live as a muscular blob in a salt factory. I wanted to ask her a thousand questions about her, things she'd never answer. But I caught her ducking her head, and shaking it, and being lost in her own self and grief. Everything I wanted vanished.

"I can't stand the quiet," she finally whispered.

I watched her run her hands over her arms, sip from the glass again. She had the same timid look as last night after she smashed, and after she yelled. It was like she surprised herself into scaredness, and shrunk. It made my heart squeeze.

"Could you?" she wouldn't meet my eyes. "You know... Just to keep the quiet away?" She pointed at the bookshelf. She grabbed a book and handed it to me after I nodded.

I sat on the floor, a few feet from Naomi. She sat against the wall and stared at her lap. Her face was hidden by hair. I wanted to start, but my voice was gone, somewhere, suddenly. It wasn't until she looked up at me anxiously, that I looked at the cover I'd been running my fingertips over. I opened the book and started.

"Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and ominous, in the fading light," I read, slow and clear.

Naomi leaned towards me slightly. Her eyes closed when her head reached my legs. She yawned.

"A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility."

I paused, only slightly, to push the hair from her forehead. Her breath had evened as it had on the couch.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, quietly to her. "I will try to make it up to you."

Naomi turned, her cheek on my thigh. Her eyes jammed shut and I knew it was horrible inside of her at that moment.

"It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life."

I read on for her.


	3. Human

**III. Human**

_Woken up like an animal_  
_Teeth ready for sinking_  
_My mind's lost in bleak vision_  
_I tried to escape but keep sinking_  
_Underneath the skin there's a human_  
_Buried deep within there's a human_  
_And despite everything I'm still human_  
_But I think I'm dying here_  
_Waking up like an animal_  
_I'm all ready for healing_  
_My mind's lost with nightmares streaming_  
_Waking up kicking screaming_  
_Take me out of this place I'm in_  
_Break me out of this shale case I'm in_

"Shhhhh," a voice was different than the ones I heard. I searched in the dark of my eyelids. I jolted and flinched, not quite out of the darkness. "It's just a bad dream."

I felt her dress stretched and locked in my vice-like grip. I had been scratching and shaking and sweating, so I didn't open my eyes. I curled my back into myself as if I was cold. I felt her fingers. I heard the rain sloshing in the street and pounding against the window with the wind that made the walls slanted. Thunder cracked and rumbled and roared and moaned angrily, like a tiger with a toothache. I felt her hands on my back, rubbing and soothing. Slowly, her hand slipped to my neck, and ran through my hair. I clutched her dress. I couldn't open my eyelids to save my life.

"There we go," she sighed. I felt her ribs breathe. I felt her body relax from the tenseness it held a minute ago. She moved in time with the storm. I jammed my face into her ribs and hid there. My eyes stayed shut. Her fingers combed at the hair on the back of my head and along the sides, over my ears.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I'm sorry." I couldn't breathe from my nose. I felt my hot breath blow back at me from her ribs when I huffed and sniffled. My face felt hot, and my eyelashes were heavy and wet.

"Sleep," she tried to persuade me. I wanted to fight. I didn't want to sleep. It was horrible and terrifying. Her fingers worked harder with her command, tracing me softly, relaxing my muscles, but sensitizing my nerves. "I'm here," she promised. "It's okay. Nothings going to get you." I shook my head under her bones and remembered my clutched hand. It wouldn't move. The bones were frozen this way now. I heard the rain and felt her warm hand on my temple, petting my head. I was useless. "I'm so sorry. More then you know."

There was quiet after that. Not like before, when I heard my mother's cries from the street after the car struck her. That didn't make sense. She was dead on contact. But I dreamt horrible things, and worse yet, I was stuck, frozen, immobile and frightened. But now, there was silence. Not dreams, not thoughts, but sleep. It was a numbing and cleansing, and quite needed sleep.

"What the hell is this?" I heard her voice and dug my nose into the carpet. Light burned the side of my face. My head ached and my bones were made of glass. The morning after pain was ripe, and my skin understood what a black banana felt like, my body all mushy and tender.

"No," I mumbled and dug my nails into the carpet. It was not Emily's dress. My eyes opened to find only the carpet, and I sat with a fright that made my head spin and lungs shrivel. I wanted to vomit, but that would just be scotch, and it would burn my entire body.

"Easy," Effy knelt beside me. "You look like it was one hell of a wake." I could barely see her. The room, though dim, was much too bright for my tastes at this hour, whatever that may be.

I dug the heel of my hand into my forehead and tried to squish my brain right there. I blinked and blinked and blinked at the filtered sunlight streaming into the room.

"I didn't go," I mumbled and rubbed my eyes with my fingers roughly. The world was a swirling mess, but I couldn't remember much yet, and that was a bit of salvation in and of itself.

"You look like you did," she continued, nudging the near empty bottle on the side of the room. It rolled and stopped with an almost inaudible clink against the desk.

"I was here," I pushed my hair away from my eyes. "With Emily," I remembered. She had been very sad as well. I didn't have the energy to try to make her feel better. Not when I couldn't figure out what I was thinking half of the time.

"Who's that?" I heard her from the other side of the desk when I flopped back to the ground.

The world was on a slight wobble, so I grippe the carpet, palming it greedily and hoping it would both stop and intensify all at the same time. She was looking at things. Surveying and seeing the pictures that never changed, but were added to, like line plots of our lives in shelf form.

"I'm going back to sleep," I said from the rug.

"You can't sleep on the floor," Effy scolded.

"My mom died," I remembered as an excuse. It wasn't though. I just simply could not figure out what my life was supposed to be like now, or how each day was supposed to play out when she wouldn't appear at the end of it with take out and a million stories, thundering into the kitchen happily. People do it though. I would eventually. I would have a day where I didn't wake up on the floor and refuse to move. Today was not it though. I wanted it to be yesterday, and I wanted to sit through an entire reading of _White Fang_ with someone who seemed just as sad as I felt, but was somehow more able to handle that sadness.

I felt Effy sit down on the rug beside me.

"Yeah," she sighed. "She died."

"She is no longer breathing," I clarified.

"Her heart doesn't beat."

"She has ceased to exist." My shoulders started to bristle. A tightness that felt like what I imagined statues to feel like as they are folded and molded forever in a singular position to have felt.

"No more riding bikes."

"I'm an orphan."

"They took her organs out."

"She's not a person anymore." I was uncomfortable in my own skin, the muscles were dissatisfied with the wooly, tight blanket they had become.

"No more appointments."

"No more bills."

"She isn't breathing."

"Her heart isn't beating." I thought I was alright. These were just facts, and they were true, and they made it even harder.

The tenseness in my shoulders tightened so my elbows actually raised towards acute angles. I stood up and left Effy squatting on the floor, head bent and weeping. She needed that. She probably hadn't yet. I wanted to invite her to destroy the kitchen, but my mouth didn't want to move.

The clothesline hung along the back path, connecting the garage to the fence like an umbilical cord we used to hang clothes. The rain did not stop, but merely sputtered at times, and continued its weary march through March with the regularity one might expect from a train engineer shouting from the platform the very seconds until a departure were due, or better yet as regular as taxes, or something more mundane to which one ascribes a certain sense of security to their drudgery and frank reliability. Regardless of which, the clouds dutifully took up their post atop the city as a sign that it was alright to mourn, as one is not inclined to do on days where the sun inhibits their neurons with lies disguised as vitamins fully content to block the pure sadness and utter emptiness that accompanied dark clouds, sloshy mud, and pale and mundane colour swatches of rainy days. Weather had no feelings, however, despite the lies that most children's tales or PBS art teachers might try to tell us.

The clouds above the yard were a direct reaction the mixture of warm and cold fronts and the lake effect, as well as many other factors including, but not limited to earth's rotation, the average of temperatures, the time of the year, moisture levels, and such.

At this moment, they were small, misty drops that swirled about, not set to simply fall to the ground, but more apt to try to survive as long as possible on the descent from the atmosphere.

I heaved the rug unto the line much easier than I had anticipated. But my shoulders were their own machine. I blinked and my mother was dead. Each drop of my eyelid was a reminder. A haunting.

The broom broke after nine minutes. The drops got larger and heavier, more full of water, and started to soak both the rug and my dress. Bandages flapped on my arm, adhesive weakened by the water.

I switched to a bat, and turned my attention to the ground. I swung and swung and swung with as much force as I could muster. The rain came down in straight, parallel lines. The tightness in my shoulders drained and ebbed and ran its course with every swing until I was simply hurting myself with fatigue. The bat grew heavier with each swing. The ground pulped itself into muddy rinds.

"You've ruined your dress," a voice called from the other side of the fence.

I rubbed my forearm across my cheek and looked down at my dirty dress, mucked up legs, and red stripped arms.

"I never planned on wearing it again," I decided.

"Then it's alright, I suspect," Emily smiled and leaned against the fence, umbrella hiding the street behind her where I thought I saw my mother walking.

"You are not in your dress," I observed, seeing her rain jacket bouncing out from the grey hued day.

"Because I'm not going to a funeral today," she explained.

"You left this morning, I think," I finally said, making my feet take steps towards the fence. "Or obviously you did. Thank you. For you know. All of it."

"I had to get home." I watched her tuck a bit of her hair behind her ear. "I had an early morning class. I was useless in it, but I thought normalcy would help."

"Did it?" I was hopeful at the idea of normalcy. "Did it feel normal? I mean, does it?" That was eager.

"A bit," she shrugged and looked at the ground. "I thought I'd stop by and see how you were." She perused me again with a small smile that struck me as oddly forlorn. "Why is it that every time I see you, you're breaking something?"

"I'm not sure," I decided truth was the best policy. "Today is a weird day. I got flustered." She seemed to accept it, so I didn't push my luck.

"I have a class this afternoon, and they wanted me to pack up your mom's office." She moved her umbrella so it was covering me. "I wanted to see if you wanted to help." I was shaking my head before she got the sentence out. "Alright, well I will just bring the boxes over this afternoon then."

She wiped mud from my chin.

"You know I have been happy before," I explained suddenly. "I'm not... This isn't how I am. I am frequently happy." That was reasonably accurate.

We were quiet then. I enjoyed the room that seemed to form as the rain continued to fall in long parallel streaks outside the umbrella. It was nice, and I had forgotten about the beating the ground with so much anger it rocked my very bones from the skeleton.

"You're going to catch cold, you know?" she finally started again.

"You don't have to worry," I promised. I tried to sound sure of it. "I'm sick of everyone worrying and taking care of me. I can take care of me."

"I'm sorry," she agreed. "I just... It came easy."

"I'm not crazy," I told her sternly. "I'm not crazy." I saw my mother behind her on the street, walking past.

"I wasn't saying you were crazy, or incapable of taking care of yourself," Emily defended herself. "You're a grown woman who has had a terrible week. I never meant to impose." I looked back at her because it was quiet again. A different kind of quiet. The quiet you get at the bottom of a pool. I watched her lips move, but I was unable to understand the sounds, they were inaudible at once, then too much a few seconds later. I felt the disconnect between it and I stepped away from her, back into the rain. I backed away like one might from a bear, warding her away with my arm slightly. I saw her eyebrows crease and her mouth start then stop.

The rain and noise came back with a single, inundating noise. I looked up and swallowed some.

"I'm sorry," I shook my head and shut my eyes. "I have a headache from last night, I think." That could have been it. "I have to go inside."

"Are you alright?" she said. I wasn't sure how many times she asked it.

"I am, I am," I promised, giving my head another small shake and her a smaller smile. "I need to get out of this dress."

"Have you eaten yet?" I shook my head again, this time to answer her. "Would you like me to heat you up a plate?" I shook it again.

"No, no, I'm fine. I just need to rest," I looked at the ground. "I really tired myself out with... gardening." That sounded true enough as well. Emily laughed. She covered her mouth with her small hand and tried to hide it, eyes growing large with the outburst. "Unsuccessfully," I added. She laughed again, strong and loud, and I heard it. I was back in our room.

"It's all so funny, isn't it?" she smiled to mimik my own. "And I'm not sure why. It's actually incredibly sad, but there's nothing to do about it all. And here you are," she looked me up and down. I wasn't sure she was talking to me though. "You're not nearly alright, and that's alright, because I'm not alright and I have no right to be as not alright as you. And I'm not, not as not alright as you, there's no comparison, but all I want to do is pound the ground to nothing, or break up a kitchen, but I can't make myself. It all just doesn't work does it? But look at you!" She was yelling a bit now, her smile gone, faded like the rain, just a mist of the afterthought. "What am I supposed to do?" she looked defeated suddenly, though she smiled on in an amused sort of disillusionment.

"I can't say I'm not relieved to see you're not as cucumber cool deep down as you've shown over the past week," I tried to cheer her up. "I have to work. I have to go inside." I realized we were too quiet and comfortable again.

"I'll drop off your mom's office later, if that's alright," Emily offered. She was a bit different then a minute ago. That outburst seemed to sober her back to reality. She was methodical and distantly close again. I nodded and walked inside.

I didn't look back to see if she was still at the fence. I just dropped my head and watched my feet bring me inside. They were covered in dirt and bits of flaked grass stems. I realized it was rude, but I couldn't be near her at the moment and I wasn't sure why. My back squished against the door as I leaned on it and stared at the muddy streaks of rivers running from my knees to my shins to the kitchen floor. My mother's old boots were just as worn and dirty and dominated my peripheral vision in a way that important things are known to do when you refuse to look at them. I saw her on the street. I lost it for a second, and it left me afraid of everything my father left for me to find.

"Who were you talking to?" Effy made me jump and my skin prickle with chill and anxiety.

"Emily," I looked up to find her between strands of my matted hair in my face. "She stopped by for something." I couldn't remember already. I gulped. Effy had big and kind eyes when she wanted and when I needed them.

"Are you-"

"Yes," I interrupted. "I'm fine." It didn't feel like a lie at that moment.

"I didn't see anyone out there," she continued.

"She had an umbrella, out in the alley," I explained, standing up from the door. Effy nodded.

"You look a bit dazed," she turned and grabbed a towel from the closet behind her.

"I thought I saw my mom on the sidewalk," I confirmed. Effy paused.

"Have you seen her before?" I shook my head. That seemed like the right thing to do. "You can tell me if you did," she was soft and in front of me, and rubbing a softer towel through my hair. Before I could answer that I couldn't, or wouldn't, she hugged me. It was weird, for her, though not altogether un-welcomed.

"I'm getting your clothes all wet," I sighed. My shoulders weren't tense.

"I don't care," she mumbled into my shoulder. "I'm sorry I upset you, Naomi." I hugged her a bit tighter. "I was on a roll, and I thought I needed it, but it just... It's all a bunch of shit." I hugged her. "I missed you. I'm sorry."

"You didn't come to the funeral," I told her. "You should have."

"I couldn't," she ducked her head and held her breath. "I couldn't."

"We will have our own," I decided. She nodded. We'd done one for our old dog. That was nearly the same.

"Are you alright," she asked again, standing up, staring right at me. I felt her holding my hair, smooshing it between her palms as she smushed my cheeks. "Tell me the truth."

"I'm average," I promised. "I have work to do."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," I sighed again. "I just can't stop moving."

"Shower," she was back to being in control. "We can go see a movie or something this afternoon."

"Emily is coming over later," I remembered. I had forgot she had been here not five minutes ago. Effy gave me a look again. "One of my mom's students. Mom mentored her, or was mentoring her with some research. I'm not sure. Don't look at me like that," I scolded her. "She's real. I swear. She exists."

"Go shower," she let it drop. "I'll make some sandwiches and we can camp out in the living room for the day."

"I have work to do," I stated.

"Alright," she left me alone. "But we have to celebrate your birthday."

"We can't."

"We can."

"No."

"We must. We must live. We are alive, so we do as the living do," she looked at me sternly. "It's what the dead want to scream at us, but they just ran out of time to tell us."

"I have to work."

"I said alright."

I leaned against the door again and stared at the puddle of murky brown water that accumulated at my feet. I hadn't felt so much like sleeping before this moment, but now it was all I wanted. It might have been the lack of such, or the pure drain of both a funeral and my dome run derby with the ground. Either way, I was tired.

I showered and went upstairs to the attic. The piles and boxes and stacks were as I left them. The television still blinked awkwardly in the corner. As I picked up a notebook I had been working on, I noticed the numbers and how little sense they made. I had a hodgepodge of various equations, none of which made sense at all. Words were etched into corners, arrows and lines and directions that couldn't have been possible were all over the lines. It was manic.

The first notebook hit the side of the wall and splashed apart like water. I kicked loose leaves of paper. I sat on the floor amidst my decapitated city of folders and notebooks and tore at pages and wept.

I had to work, but couldn't.

I was my father.

"You have to stop making messes," again it was here.

"I can't help it," I grabbed the sides of my head and squeezed until it hurt, staring at the floor. My mother sat on the steps.

"This won't beat you," she assured me. I kicked the pages towards her and scooted back until I hit a wall of boxes. Frantically I threw books. It was quiet again. I didn't hear them tumble down the stairs. "You will go back to school. You will be happy again, I promise. You really will. I have to believe that."

"It's stress," I assured myself. "I can't be here," I stood and inched my way around the room, avoiding her like she was a demon. I thundered down the stairs, slammed the attic door, and leaned against it, swallowing what little I could in my mouth.

I ran my hands over my face.


	4. Demon

**Alright, what is it? Does everyone hate it? **

**III. Demon**

_Under the weight of belief_  
_You shiver and shake like a leaf._  
_But death is a force, not a man on a horse:_  
_I'll keep you safe while you sleep._

"You can't bail again," Katie whined into the phone. "Tonight's our night to celebrate. It's in your honor, for Christ's sake." She was mad. I pushed the street crossing button weakly, feeling my resolve waver with her pleas.

"It's hard to celebrate," I sighed and fumbled my fingers through my hair while sandwiching the boxes between my body and the street pole. I stared up at the sky and the buildings and the line that lingers between reflective windows and clouds that made a patchwork of variously colored, though similar images throughout the overhead space.

"Stop that," Katie scolded gently. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't, Em."

I pushed my way across the street, leaving campus in my wake. I balanced two boxes infront of me and Katie on my shoulder. The evening was growing quiet with people leaving and life generally wrapping up for the night. I passed candles set on the corner across from the fountain where the accident happened. I couldn't look, but avoided it as best I could while staring at it in my periphery.

"I have a lot of packing," I reminded her, avoiding the topic. "The office is nearly done. But I'm not sure when I'll get home."

"Stop for the night," she was persuasive agin. "Tonight is made for drinking and dancing and forgetting and I'm off tomorrow. You need a night away, and I want to celebrate my sister. Didn't you hear? She's going to be a doctor."

"I don't just show up my first day and they give me a stethoscope and a badge with keys to the operating rooms," I reminded her.

"Whatever," she cajoled me. "You know what I mean."

"I just can't do it, Katie," I sighed again. I heard the silence on the other end of the phone and I wondered what she was debating.

"I'm worried about you," she half-whispered.

"Please don't," I scolded her in turn.

"I have to!" she was exasperated. I shifted the boxes as I continued to walk. "You're gone except if you're sleeping, which isn't much. You spend hours locked in an office or study. You lost someone close to you, and you blame yourself. You've taken it upon yourself to keep checking in on her whack-job, reclusive daughter. You won't-"

"Katie!" I stopped her. I frequently had to shout just to get her to shut up and let me speak. "That's rude. I have duties."

"She's not one of them. All that you're doing aren't duties. It's unjust guilt, and I hate seeing you like this. You have a life just starting for yourself," she continued. I tried not to listen and took deep breaths of the springtime air. The city was blooming with the showers that passed last week, and now it was stuck in that awkward time when evenings spanned entire hours, and night would come, but the sky would stretch the last bit of grey and sun and sky it could before stars interrupted. It was my favorite time of day. The in-between Anything can happen at times like that. The world felt it.

"Maybe I just enjoy spending time with her," I interrupted whatever she was saying.

"I would hope," my sister scoffed. We were both quiet for a moment. I set the boxes on the porch as I reached the house.

"Listen," I tugged at my hear over my eyes in a fist. "I'm here. I will see you later."

"You'll be there?" she was back to hopeful.

"I will be late."

"I'll take it." I smiled at her even though she wouldn't know it. "Love you. See you later."

"Love you," I managed to get out before she hung up.

The light of my phone quickly dimmed as I stared at it. The light on the porch made the door seem larger than it was. Reluctantly I grabbed the handle, then retreated. It took me a moment to gather the courage to go inside for some reason. Perhaps because I had worked it up in my head that this was the last time. I was done emptying the office of Gina's effects. I didn't have to touch her study. While I couldn't, and hadn't been able to for so long, it was moot point now that I finally accepted the offer for med school. Opening the door to finally close it and everything behind it seemed like the largest mountain to climb. It was impenetrable, impregnable, impassable and utterly mystifying in its complex simplicity.

Eventually I pushed it open. People do that though. They push forward. I was steeled. It was confession day.

"Can I help you a bit?" Effy walked through the hallway a few seconds later as I juggled the boxes and the latch of the door.

"Thank you," I huffed as she took one of them from me. "This is the last of it." I only just recognized the fatigue in my arms when the weight was gone.

"Just leave them here," Effy moved towards the dining room and left her box on the table. "We've been going through things slowly, trying to sort and decide what to keep and give back to the university."

"That can't be easy," I offered, wiping my hands on my pants to get the blood back in them.

"Easier than the more personal things," Effy smiled warmly at me. "How are you?" We did this dance every so often when I stopped by if Naomi wasn't around to greet me first. I think she was simply relieved that I was real, so every time she saw me, she could take a deep breath and remember things weren't as bad as they could be.

"Good," I decided. "Really better, I think."

"That's all you can hope for, I suspect."

"How are you holding up?"

"There are good and bad days. Hell, good and bad hours," she rolled up one of her sleeves absently while I followed her towards the kitchen. "We take care of each other. I guess I just worry too much. I see things where they aren't when she tells me things..."

"Anything I can do?" I accepted the bottle of water she handed me.

"You've truly done much more than we could have ever had a right to ask of someone," Effy assured me.

"What happens next?" I ventured. I wasn't sure how intrusive I was allowed to be. I gulped from the bottle. Effy tossed her long hair slightly and gazed out of the window as the sink held her up. She was quite striking, and worse yet, someone who seemed good.

"I move my stuff back next week," she started. "I'll find some work. It will all work out, I guess. Naomi keeps wanting to get back to work. I'm not sure what its about though. I know the school wants her back whenever she's ready."

"That's good, at least," I tried to sound conciliatory. I looked about the kitchen and remembered cleaning it for hours. I wasn't afraid of Naomi. That wouldn't make sense. She was a cornered rhino, uprooting trees and trying to simply escape and make everyone leave them alone, afraid of attention and the loss of control of everything. I was intrigued, like a foolish game warden armed simply with a blow gun.

Effy's phone rang in the other room, causing us both to jump.

"Freddie," she smiled. Her eyes eased and she seemed relieved. "I better get that. Naomi's out back in the garage if you'd like to stop in."

"Thank you." I gave her a smile as well. I enjoyed her as well. "For what it's worth," I began as she passed me and reached the door, phone still ringing. "You're an amazing friend. It kind of renews my faith in life a bit to see you two. Let me know if you every need anything." I watched her search my face, not bewildered, not calculating, simply finding.

"She'd do the same, in her own way," she nudged her head and was gone a second later.

I was left alone in the kitchen again. I placed my hand flat on the counter and felt the grooves of the tiles and the grout between, rubbing bits of it as I could. I heard Effy in the front parlour as a mild rumbly whisper.

A hole remained in the lawn by the sidewalk. The bat was propped against a tree now and the rugs were dried and put back in their places. Still I remember seeing her, black dress and all, beating the ground as if her life depended on it. I'm not sure what it did to me, but it was unalterable now.

I followed the lull of music coming from the open garage door in the back, gripping my water bottle tighter with every step. Tonight she was sitting at the table, tightening something on another something, concentration unwavering, mouth strung tight and shoulders hunched. I sighed. I wrung my hands.

"I have to tell you something," I finally started. Her head whipped towards where my voice was, which happened to be where my mouth was, which happened to me somewhat cowering on the opposite side of a shell of a car against some boxes.

"You have to stop that," she dropped a wrench and grabbed her chest with the fright.

"I'm sorry," I was quick to apology, but less so to move forward. "I brought the last of your mom's stuff back from the office. I left it in the dinning room."

"Thank you," she nodded and smiled. She did then when I started to talk, and then that just made it worse.

"Effy told me about moving here," I rattled. Naomi sat down her wrench. "That sounds nice. And you want to go back to school to finish, and they want you. That's really great. You seem better. Do you feel better? You look better. It's only been a few days, but you look better, sometimes. Sometimes you look so sad, and sometimes I feel sad, but I feel better, until I start thinking. I am so sorry." I drank from the bottle until it as empty and took a deep breath. "This is a car. This is a really nice car. This is an old, nice car, right?"

"Are you done?" she had her arms crossed and looked content.

"Yes," I nodded. I wondered if she picked up on the nervousness.

"This is my dad's car," she stood up. "He never finished it. Or started. He never finished that one either," she wiped her hands on a rag and nudged her head towards the back of the garage. "I helped him with that one. We didn't finish. Effy thought it would be good if we started sorting through things. I have to finish now. I-" she stopped herself and ducked her head

"There's no engine," I peered over the side.

"Yeah," she nodded and gazed with me. "I'm working on that, slowly."

"You can make an engine?" I leaned over and surveyed.

"We will see, I guess," she shrugged. "I'm not worried."

"I hope it goes better than the gardening," I regretted it the second it was out of my mouth. Naomi laughed and nodded.

Again there was quiet, and I didn't want to open my mouth again.

"You know, I remember you," Naomi started. "I met you at my mom's office." I nodded and took a seat on the hood after she closed it. "Once, in passing. You smelled like apples." I smiled to myself as she sat beside me. The music continued its dull din in the background. I wasn't sure what it was, but I didn't really care. This was the first time I remember her to be completely uninhibited and what felt like conscious. It made me brave and cowardly at the same time.

Naomi stood and went back to working. I debated again, despite my resolve I had when I came here.

"Your mother was on her way to meet me," I started, mumbling to my hands. "I asked her to meet me. I had to tell her I got accepted to med school in LA. I... I... She was so important to me. She helped me in so many ways. I didn't want to let her down." I felt a tear on my hand and realized I was crying. I looked at it, afraid to look up at her.

There was nothing except the creak of the socket on the bench that ignored me. Naomi didn't move or flinch.

"I'm sorry," I cried, finally. "I'm so sorry. And now I'm leaving, and I've just fucked your life all to hell. But it's okay," I sobbed and huffed between, "because I packed up a few boxes, and I made you a few reheated plates of god-awful pasta casseroles. That's what I tried to tell myself. But I fucked you beyond repair. I shouldn't have done it. I didn't know this would happen."

The wrench careened off of the back of the car with a clang and thud.

"Fucking fuck," Naomi huffed to herself before letting the hunk of metal she had been working on dropped onto the counter. I watched her lean her head back and roll her shoulders. She clapped her hands in front of her face. She hit the table with her fist. She held her head in her hands.

"I'm so sorry," I wiped at my face. "I'm so fucking sorry."

She ignored me still. She got up and picked up the wrench lazily, tapping it on the side of the car softly and putting her ear towards it. I stood and drew her attention, ready to let myself out for the last time. She stood up straight quite quickly and looked at me quizzically.

"You're crying," she realized, tossing the wrench on the table and walking towards me. She had the same look as in the garden when she suddenly made a rapid departure back to the house. It was lost and confused and utterly indifferent.

"I'm sorry," I looked away and ran my sleeve over my eyes. "I'm not sure why. Weren't you listening? You should be, or yelling. I don't know."

"You brought my mom's stuff back," she stated, searching my face. She was close. She smelled like a garage and soap, clean underneath, despite the surroundings.

"I did," I managed through hiccups. I was a coward. I ducked my head and cried again. I couldn't stop, and that was unfair to her. I didn't have a right. I was all fatigued after putting down the boxes.

"I know," Naomi nodded. Her hands were on my cheeks, her thumbs were wiping under my eyes. I shook my head dumbly. She didn't know.

Then, she started to laugh. At first her eyes were a shade of compassion I hadn't seen from her very often, it was foreign and looked quite nice on her. And then it was laughter. I pushed away from her haughtily. "I'm sorry," she managed. "It's just... I smeared oil on you, and you're so upset. And here you are, worrying and upset with oil on your face."

I was a coward. My throat chanted to tell her with a dull, burning ache. I swallowed it. My tongue dance behind my teeth, forming words while my lips locked up completely.

"That's not funny," I reminded her. "That's actually kind of mean."

"I'm sorry," she pulled herself together.

I stared at her and set my jaw, gritting at irritation. There was still this nagging, horrible guilt in the bottomest bottom of my stomach. Naomi gave me a shrug and held a laugh.

"Now you're pouting with oil streaked across your face," she took a step towards me. "I was trying to be nice," she shook her head. "And look what it got me." I crossed my arms when she reached me. She wiped again, pulling and swabbing while I sniffled petulantly. "I'm sorry you had to carry all of that. Had I known I would have asked Effy to come up with you. I haven't thought much..." she stopped and finally met my eyes. "I haven't been out of my head in a while. I'm trying. I am sorry."

I bit at the inside of my lip and tried to see who she was. I got a new idea every time I was close to figuring out the last. She hadn't heard. She was as blank as a few days ago in the garden.

"It's alright," I squeaked hoarsely. We were under the umbrella again, though this time not separated by fence. Her eyes were stormy little things now, mulling and thinking and looking at the traces of tears on my cheeks appraisingly.

"You can start in the study whenever you're up to it," she offered. My heart sank in quick sand, clear to my diaphragm, down to my guts, which were far from useful at the present. "Don't feel rushed. I can't..." she looked away, everywhere, "I won't be doing anything with it for a while." I swallowed sandpaper.

I did the only thing that one does in that situation. I kissed her.

I'd wanted to do it, and I simply did. I pushed my lips against hers, and that was that. It was not long, but chaste and innocent and unthreatening. All I wanted to do was be threatening. I wanted to tell her the truth like I already had, but I wanted to tell her to her face. So I kissed her instead. I wanted to scream at her that I felt so guilty I didn't know what to do. I just couldn't. I didn't want to hurt her in new ways, though this probably was. I'd never see her again.

"I got into med school," I said as soon as I pulled away. Her eyes were shut and her face was simply stunned. "I accepted, and with my scores and previous classes, I only have about a year until residency. I hadn't considered it, but I couldn't forget it. I realized, with Gina, I just... I want the physical. I can't handle the brain and it's workings. I love it, but I want to be on the biology of it. This doesn't make sense, or matter to you," I prattled on and her face grew no less accustomed to shock, but instead froze there. "I just... I pushed away at that dream, and then I got an offer after a spur of the moment application-"

Naomi kissed me. Much the same as mine, soft and gentle she moved her lips so slightly and held my neck. It reminded me of a school yard moment behind the bushes in middle school.

"Congratulations," she said simply.

We pulled apart slightly, still standing there like boxers before a prize fight, sizing the other, looking for something, a weakness, perhaps, but I didn't want that.

"I have to go," I remembered.

"Alright," she nodded and straightened. "Good luck," she smiled awkwardly and backed away slowly.

When the time came for me to walk away, I realized I was still on the summit, looking up at the mountain. I chanted what I wanted to tell her about how I called her mother and arranged the meeting. I chanted it all and I felt it rile my abdomen. I looked at her, at what I'd done, and how kissing her was what I wanted to do in the kitchen, but she was so distraught it hurt my heart. Maybe that was the only reason I wanted to kiss her. Maybe I was addicted to despair. I couldn't believe that completely. Not when she'd been so kind to me a few minutes ago. My mind absolutely hurt. My heart ached as much. My throat and my arms and my back were sore, and I was unnerved.

I stared at her and she stared at me, steps and steps and steps apart. I remembered the smile she gave me when we bumped into each other at the office. She was laughing and taking her mother to lunch. And now.

I turned and left.

I stopped in the driveway to catch my breath because my brain was making my lungs sprint to keep up with its speed. I hadn't told her. I had kissed her. I had no excuse to go back.

"Leave me alone!" I heard Naomi shout behind me. She laughed until she cried. The wrench torqued ferociously.

I took a step. I took another. That kept happening until I was on a bus heading towards the opposite side of town, and as I sat that I remembered what a coward I was, and I remembered how cruel I had been to simply kiss her for no reason but to distract myself from everything. My forehead rested on the cool glass of the window as the dimly lit world flickered past, and I could do was sit there.


	5. Control Freak

**welp. fire just about fucked everything to hell.**

**IV. Control Freak**

_You lose control when you hold too tight,  
And turn your head long enough to let it bite.  
'Cause faith left me staring at the ceiling through the night.  
It's freaking me out._

_And when I fell asleep, it plagued my dreams,_  
_And thirty bits of glass had become my teeth._  
_They were breaking each and every time I tried to speak._  
_It's freaking me out._

"I don't want to do this anymore," I sighed in defeat and flopped back in the chair. It gave a bit, bounced back with me and flipped back to a proper position. I rocked myself with my feet like a child negotiating broccoli consumption rates and their adjustments for the fiscal quarter with inflation and demand for five more minutes of television.

"You told me you would help," Emily rolled her eyes without looking up from the envelope she was currently working on. Her hair was pulled up. It wasn't normally pulled up, but the weather wasn't normally this nice when I saw her. Sometimes it was, because I saw her often for some reason, and summer was here, and our glasses were riddled with sweat and our lemonade watered itself down quickly.

"You told me it wouldn't be horrible," I retorted. "But it is. This is downright dreadful." I stared at her neck. More specifically, I stared at the curve of her neck as she tucked her fingers into the space at the corner of her jaw. Her knee propped up her elbow which propped up her head which watched her write addresses on envelopes. Every new one she would move completely then return. And I would be left looking at simply her neck and the protrusion of vertebrae there which looked elegant covered in tendrils of hair like a weeping willow's branches hiding just enough of the tree.

"It's not that bad," she shook her head and tucked the branches behind her ears. "You're being a baby."

"This is pointless," I huffed. "Thanking people for food I ended up throwing away. Thanking people for telling me they were sorry for something no one but the driver of a car had any control over. It doesn't make sense." I stopped talking, swallowed and closed my eyes. I didn't want to talk like that.

"It's custom," she simply shrugged. "And you've put it off for almost a month."

"Then they definitely aren't holding their breaths for it, are they?"

She bit back a smile and finally looked up at me to shake her head.

"I want to go back to work," I complained, setting pen to paper again. "I have to."

"You can take a break from scribbling away with your tiny little letters in that made up language," she insisted.

I wanted to argue, but it felt like I shouldn't. I couldn't work. Everything I did was pointless, my hands wouldn't write what I wanted, my brain would get sidetracked and I'd end with more gibberish. I couldn't focus. It squeezed my brain until I had to walk away and sit in the dark and try to keep it together, which was becoming more and more difficult.

"It's not made up, it's mostly the Greek alphabet," I reminded her. I'd explained it numerous times, or tried.

"That's not my point," she returned.

The sun wavered slightly behind the tall oak in the yard. There was a breeze, but it did nothing to hide the heat that was coming for the summer. While mild now, especially as the afternoon turned into evening, it would grow muggy and unbearable soon enough, almost as soon as all of the dorms emptied officially and campus became a half-model of what it was, would the weather lay itself atop the city and settle in, burning up the asphalt streets and depressing anything that tried to move.

"Have you found an apartment?" I asked casually as we continued to work. I wasn't a baby.

"I think so," she nodded to herself. Never once did she look up while she worked. She was efficient.

"That's good," I nodded in agreement.

We worked in silence. Emily paused to drink from her lemonade for a moment, but I kept working because I didn't want to make her mad or push my luck because she was helping me, and she had been helping me before I even realized it. Effy said it would be rude to treat her unkindly, and I wouldn't mean to do that anyway. It was hard, though. I felt like a burden. I felt like I was a volunteerism project where she visited the houses of messed up kids that needed looked after and did a craft project with them to make sure they had human contact. Effy said that wasn't it. Emily would say that wasn't it because volunteers don't say they volunteer because it takes away from the volunteering.

"Alright, I can't stand it," Emily stood and dropped her pen on the stack. "This is dreadful."

"I thought we had to finish," I exhaled, flopping back again.

"This is dreadful," she looked at me and had her hand on her hip as if she were informing me of a fact, and I was fighting her on it.

"I know," I agreed. We were just looking at each other now.

I'd spent a lot of time not seeing Emily. I didn't see her when she practically cohabited with me before the funeral. I don't remember seeing her when she brought over boxes. I only remember that she was there, not her eyes or her hair or her nose or her mouth or anything. But she had all of those things. I saw them individually, frequently, in tiny quick glances. Like when she stopped by and watched movies with Effy and I during the thunderstorm a few Tuesdays ago and I saw her ear when she played with her earring. Or when I saw her nose the other night when we walked to the park. For this moment though, I saw her face, and that was alright. It was nice. It made my throat all dry and suddenly aware of swallowing. That's how nice it was.

"Show me more of the car," she said to the rim of her cup before drinking a bit. I watched her neck, and how it moved again.

"I should get back to work," I looked down quickly at my hands and how awkwardly they seemed to hold a pen. It's amazing how awkward one's body can look doing normal things if you really think about it.

"You can fix the space time continuum, or whatever you do, later," she explained. "I'm just..." she looked around, surveying the yard, turning back to the windows and seeing the boxes inside, stacked and filled with the master bedroom I gave up to Effy and Freddie. I hadn't touched them, or packed them. Emily and Effy had. That seemed like volunteerism. "I'm restless."

"It's not the space/time continuum," I mumbled to my palms. "It's a systematic proof of the variability of prime numbers, taking into account Ernhart's theorum, as well as fundamentally renegotiating the complexity of the real and unreal."

"You do math with letters," she taunted me. "You fill notebooks with letters, and that's the most dumbed down explanation you can give me?" I nodded.

I hadn't showed her the notebooks. I left them stacked in a corner in the attic. I left them there, but when she was around, sometimes she saw me working, and she would work around me if she were helping Effy, or if she were dropping something off. Sometimes I would talk to her, others she would come back later, but not before leaving something close to me when I barely responded to her questions. A cup of water, a mug of tea that would be lukewarm by the time I noticed, or a small chocolate kiss, or a little note that told me she would be back later for some reason. She was more specific, but she always made a reason.

"Do you want to see the car?" I asked, looking up at her quickly. I earned a smile and nod.

Emily began grabbing all of the supplies and making a pile. I grabbed our glasses and held the door for her.

"How's it coming?" Effy looked up from chopping something on the cutting board on the island.

"Nearly finished," Emily spoke for me. "Just taking a break."

"Well, dinner's almost ready," Effy was slicing. "Can we set you a plate, Emily?" I was suddenly aware of how motherly Effy appeared, as if I was ten and invited a neighbor kid over to play video games.

"That's not necessary," Emily politely refused. "I should be off soon."

"It's no trouble," Effy persisted. "We have plenty, Freddie will be home soon, and I'm sure you could use something a little stronger than lemonade. Stay a bit?" I watched them beat the ball of a conversation back and forth. Emily debated, shoving her hands in her back pockets and mulling on her heels. "Plus, I haven't talked to you all week, and I'm so excited to hear about LA."

"Alright, sure," she finally acquiesced. "Is there anything I can do?" Effy was already shaking her head.

"We'll be back," I ended it by pushing Emily towards the door.

"Dinner will be in just a few," Effy reminded us as I shut it behind us.

"It's alright if I stay, right?" Emily walked with me towards the garage. The hole remained undisturbed to our left, chucked pieces of sod and lawn upchucked at awkward angles. I nodded.

The smell of garage greeted us as I opened the door. I heaved it up with my shoulders despite my arm's weakness. I searched for the lights as Emily walked towards the middle, through the box maze that had reluctantly formed over the weeks.

The lamp clicked and swung above, and I wrestled along the wall to plug in the lamp hanging from the hood. Emily was illuminated and squinted against its harshness as I approached.

Quietly we peered over the edge of the sides. The clicking of cicadas echoed about outside and the heat of the stuffy garage made my skin prickle. It felt stifling all over my body.

"I never fully thanked you for everything you've done," I started, picking up a wrench and untightening a bolt I'd put in last night. I kept my hands busy and didn't look at her because that wouldn't work. "You never had to, and I appreciate it. And I'm sorry for my behavior, sometimes. Especially at first..." I chanced a glance to see if she understood. She was watching my hands, arms folded into herself.

I followed her gaze and continued until I couldn't hear a thing. I swallowed and shut my eyes tightly, never letting my hands stop their work.

"I..." I heard Emily start suddenly, and it was welcomed. "I couldn't do anything else." I nodded as if I understood.

"You know that you don't have to," I explained. "I mean, please don't feel obligated."

Emily slowly lifted her eyes to meet mine. She locked her jaw and pressed her lips before sucking softly at their inside.

"I don't," she said. "Tell me about this."

"This is my grandfather's original first car," I inhaled and stood up. "My dad worked on it to give to him, but he died. My grandpa. He died when I was young. My dad taught me some things. We worked on it, off and on, depending on how he felt. Sometimes he'd be normal, you know?" Emily followed me as I walked around it a bit. "For weeks, we'd be out here, working on this or the other, or looking for parts. He loved to do that. It was like treasure hunting." I remembered the weekends at the junkyard, and my father pushing up his glasses as he leaned over an engine. "My grandpa taught him about cars." I opened the door which wailed and protested with a creak. "Here, see how it feels," I offered her the drivers seat. Her long pale legs slid inside gracefully. I blinked and walked around to the other side. It was doorless, so I was grateful to avoid another moan.

"I don't even know where to start," she touched the steering wheel, traced the gear shift. "I can't even drive." I must have looked incredulous. "I've lived in the city my whole life," she tried to explain. "Stop looking at me like that," she rolled her eyes and went back to pretending.

"I'll show you on this," I promised from somewhere I wasn't sure of.

"If you can get it running in a month," she chuckled.

"You'll be back, won't you?" I realized suddenly what was happening.

"Yes," she decided. "My sister is here."

"Alright," I decided. I stared straight ahead.

The car was slightly more stuffy than the garage. I picked at the vinyl of the seats absently while I rested my foot on the dashboard. Emily played with buttons occasionally, but other than that, there was stillness. It made my mind race and my nerves twitch.

"So what am I sitting in?" she turned to me while I stared at my hands in my lap again.

"This is a 1960 Ford Falcon," I informed her. "Or at least bits and pieces of one, and hopefully will be one soon enough."

"What color was it?" Emily furrowed and turned towards me more.

"Blue," I turned to where the passenger window should have been.

"The car in the book," Emily turned back to driving down the imaginary highway. "I can't believe... This is the car from the book," she spoke softly, but excitedly.

"What?"

"Your father's first novel," she was smiling. "I can't believe I'm sitting in this... This was it, wasn't it?"

"What?" I repeated.

"I think every freshman in college reads that book," she was controlling herself. "And this is it," she whispered, running her fingertips along the steering wheel. "The car that is ripped apart. You know," she prodded.

"What?" I asked again.

"In the book," she repeated, tossing her head towards me.

"I've never read my dad's stuff," I confessed. Emily looked as if I had punched her in the gut.

"This is a famous car," she nodded assuringly. She stared at me with big brown eyes. I watched her try to figure something out. Again her lip was sucked in and nibbled. "I'm sorry," she decided. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"It's alright," I shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about anyway."

"Okay, I'm not sorry then," she ribbed me.

I think our smiles faded in unison as we looked away from each other. I was uncomfortable with the quiet between us. It felt static-filled with things unsaid, unheard, or completely un-understood. I wasn't sure why, exactly. She'd seen me at the bottom of the bottom, unredeemable and unfettered. But this, now that I wasn't losing my mind, at least for the most part, at the moment, I was full of anxiety as to every tiny part of her.

"We're friends, right?" I asked, not daring to turn to her. The time it took her to answer was years.

"I kissed you," she said, as if debating it. "I like being around." I followed her. "I think so," she nodded, running her hands up her legs.

"My life has changed," I talked to my palms. "Quite a bit over the past few months. I felt... off... before everything," I confessed. "I don't know why, but things weren't the same, and maybe it was a little cosmic tuning, or whatever, but... I... things are different now, aren't they?"

"Very," she agreed without hesitation.

"I still miss her everyday," I sighed.

"Yeah," she sighed back.

I watched her shoulders as her head dropped back against the headrest. The car was dimly lit. I stretched my legs out the side, and I couldn't help thinking of my mother, and how I would never be sitting in a car with a friend any other time.

"Now you're moving," I started, not sure of where the words were coming from entirely.

"Yeah," she lulled her head towards me. "Just for a bit."

"I thought you would take over for my mom," I couldn't look at her when she looked at me like that.

"Me too," she looked away. I couldn't feel her eyes on me anymore.

"Why aren't you?" I turned again. We were in an awkward game of blatant hide and seek.

"What did you want to be when you grew up?" Emily had these serious eyes. I couldn't look away. She propped her leg against the steering wheel and touched her knee. I tried to think of it and stare at her, but that was impossible.

"I'm not sure," I shrugged. "Everything, at one point. Then I figured out that I wasn't good at much So I write in a made up language and try to fix the space/time continuum." Emily laughed and shook her head. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"We moved around to about six or seven foster homes until we got our mom and dad," she was far away beside me. She swallowed hard. "The first house we went to, I don't remember much. We had a suitcase. The families weren't horrible, all of the time. Some were," she cleared her throat. "The first house, there was an old copy of an encyclopedia of medicine. I wouldn't talk, but I read it, cover to cover, through all of those homes. I had that book and a suitcase."

"Who are you?" I whispered, more to myself. She ignored it.

"I wanted to work with your mom," she faced me earnestly. "But I couldn't fight that. And my mom was wary of me going into medicine. We never had much money..."

"I understand," I promised. "It-"

"Dinner, guys," Freddie appeared at the garage door and lingered outside.

My mouth shut of its own accord. I wanted more, greedily, because for the last fifteen minutes, I was very much actively alive, and I was interested, and I was far away from being locked away.

"Does that make sense?" Emily opened the door, but waited for my answer. I nodded again. "We better go," she waited for me.

"I'm not hungry," I didn't budge. "Tell Effy I'm busy."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I was stoic. Reluctantly Emily closed the door and walked towards the house. She stutter stepped once or twice, only half looking back to see if I were coming or second guessing her choice to not fight me on coming in to dinner.

Instead I waited until the door was shut and moved to the work bench. I clicked on another light and the small fan.

My dad had pictures of us all along the tool wall. They were added to the ones my grandfather I never met kept there. Me and Mom at the zoo for my sixth birthday. The whole family at the coast. Him and her sitting on the hood of the car behind me. My mother in a little red dress outside of a church. My dad on a typewriter with me in his lap. Mom and I baking, or more specifically, me spreading flour about while she baked. My parents dancing on the back porch. Our old dog sitting up and smiling. It suddenly became very much obvious that I'd lived a life and it was filled with memories I took for granted by not remembering or embracing, but instead mostly fearing their existence at all. If I was momentary in the present, there was nothing to long for in the past, nothing to hope for in the future. Here I was, at a desk, at this moment. Ten years ago, I was under our old car with my dad changing the oil, and a picture of just our feet sticking out from under it, proves that that once happened. In the future, I would be asleep in my bed, and Emily would go to LA, and then I wouldn't have someone to make me do Thank-You Cards.

I stared at the pictures haphazardly tacked here and there, stuck inside tool box lids, held up with tape on the edge of ledges of shelves. Newspaper clippings of events or a few reviews from friends my father valued.

And I'd never read him at all because that was a memory, and I would turn to page ninety-four and remember sitting beside him with my pen and pencil writing a story about a duck that could only neigh while he wrote serious things about a car that Emily recognized, and apparently was some kind of symbol that the majority of minorly educated college drop outs would recognize.

I was suddenly very aware of the concept of time and all that it meant. I was immensely confused about everything inside my head. I wanted to ask my mom about everything as well. But I could handle facts. So that was what I would work with, and only that.

On the back of an old lawnmower manual I began to write.

THINGS I KNOW/THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED (RECENTLY):  
Mom was hit by a car and she died. I have not been okay. I saw her. I should consider reading my dad's books. Sometimes I cannot hear. Emily wants to be a doctor. She is moving to LA and one day she will save someone's mom who was hit by a car. The days are getting better. Emily comes around and we talk and hang out. I kissed her a little. She kissed me a little. (Her first). I want to get back to work. Emily was adopted. I have decided to learn more about her. Boxes need to be sorted.

I read and reread my list repeatedly. Those were facts. There was nothing I could do about them. Crickets sang outside and a moth threw itself into the light, retreated, and tried again repeatedly. Occasionally I heard laughing from the house. Anxiously I tapped my pencil. I straightened up tools within reach. I read my list. I reread it.

"I made you a plate," Emily distracted me from scribbling when I went to add and correct the list.

"Thank you."

"I'm heading home for the night," she set down the plate next to my list. "What are you working on?" I felt her over my shoulder.

"Nothing," I moved to hide slightly. "How was dinner?"

"Really nice," she smiled and tried to look over. "Is that you?" she stopped squirming and pointed to a picture of me in the bath with a bubble turban.

"I can't really deny it, can I?" I shrugged and turned over the lawnmower manual.

"You were adorable," she cooed, pinching my side slightly.

"Do you want to see the car?" I offered again. I felt her shake her head. She leaned her chin on my shoulder to survey some of the pictures.

"I should be going," she reiterated. "I have to help my mom with the garden tomorrow, and she likes to start early to beat the heat. I like that one," she didn't lift her head, but pointed at the one of the oil change. "Look at your little overalls."

"I think my mom had to throw them away while I slept one night, I wore them so much." Emily laughed and tucked her hand under her chin, humming to herself quietly.

"I should go," she sighed again. "Take care, alright? And try to eat. Don't get distracted with whatever you were working on once I leave." I felt her stand up, the weight of her head no longer on my shoulder. "Thanks for putting up with me." She trailed off and slowly walked closer to the door. "I had a nice dinner. I'll see you."

"Why is it that whenever you say goodnight or goodbye, it sounds like you're never coming back," I turned my stool toward her. "It's like you're trying to say goodbye forever."

"It's not-" she started and stopped. Her brow creased reluctantly and her lips were bitten.

"No, it is," I stood. My shoulders tenses as they are known to do. I felt sorry for the lawn later. "At first I thought you'd just not come around, but then you do, nearly every day, but at the end of each, you tear yourself, it feels like you're nerving yourself up, and I don't understand it. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it's like you're telling me everything I need to know in case you disappear. And that's not really fair, is it?"

I finally looked up from her shoes and my shoes and the spot of old oil on the concrete floor and the dropped screwdriver from last week I had forgotten. She shifted. I watched her deciding. She tucked the branches of her hair behind her ear and looked at the ground, probably seeing my shoes and the oil and the tool, searching for an answer among the dust and dirt and misplaced objects. I couldn't look away.

"It's not fair," she agreed. "I try, but I like bring around you. I kind of want to be around you as much as possible, if that's not too forward. If it is then I will do my best to back track around it... But I try. I go home, and I am never coming back, but my feet drag me here, it seems."

"Well stop that," I decided for her. She smiled. I was growing to like it more than I think I should. She took a step back towards me. I liked her hips in her shorts. I made a mental note to add that to the list. As well as the fact that having my spine back felt absolutely terrifying. Like looking into a cannon filled with lightning bolts.

"My sister is having a party for my parents' twenty-fifth anniversary tomorrow," she started, challenging me. "Would you like to come?"

"Yes," I blurted.

"Good," she smiled. This one was different. I would have to start classifying them. Her eyes looked like hot chocolate, and that was kind of mean in a torturous way. "Invite Freddie and Effy. It's just a small get to together at home."

"Okay," I nodded.

"I'll see you Sunday night then." Slowly, Emily lifted up slightly and kissed my cheek. Her hands were in her back pockets again. That was her debating stance, I believed. She restarted her walk towards the door. "How was that for a better goodbye?" she laughed when she was just a silhouette at the garage door, backlit by the back porch light, all short and leggy with the cheeks and such.

"Much better."


	6. Hymne à L'amour

**VI: Hymne á L'amour_  
_**

_Si un jour la vie t'arrache à moi,_  
_Si tu meurs que tu sois loin de moi_  
_Peu m'importe si tu m'aimes_  
_Car moi je mourrai aussi_  
_Nous aurons pour nous l'éternité_  
_Dans le bleu de toute l'immensité_  
_Dans le ciel plus de problèmes_  
_Mon amour crois-tu qu'on s'aime_  
_Dieu réunit ceux qui s'aiment._

"Ah, Mom, you look amazing," I stopped adjusting my dress in the mirror when I saw her coming down the stairs in the mirror. "Holy cow," I let out a little whistle.

"Your sister's doing," she blushed slightly and shook her head to herself as she greeted me. I was not used to seeing her all made up so elegantly, but twenty-five years was something to celebrate. No one does that anymore. No one is in for the long haul, the extra mile, the marathon, extra innings, game seven, and so on and so forth.

"I like it," I assured her, checking her up and down. "Dad is going to ask you to marry him again when he sees you." That earned a laugh. He asked her to marry him once a month, and dutifully she would remind him she already rode that ride and he would miraculously remember. 'Ah yes, that thing I had to wear the suit for,' he would quip and go back to his paper. "This time just say yes the first time."

Our differences were incredibly obvious when I looked at us both in the mirror. We were genetic strangers, save for the sixteen years we'd spent as a family. I think those were more important.

"And you clean up so nice, darling," she brushed my shoulders and moved the hair that had fallen near my ears. "Sometimes I can't believe how grown up you and Katie have become. I remember those little knock-kneed girls," she had the sad smile on her face that comes with remembering how much life has changed despite everything, for better and worse and everything in between. "All adorable and nervous. Your sister holding your hand." She ran her hand along my cheek. "I am so very proud to have you both as my daughters. And your dad. Goodness knows I think I'll keep him around a bit longer."

"Mom," I pretended to be annoyed to avoid crying. "This is a happy night to celebrate and drink. No more of that," I patted the skin below my eyes to avoid any leaking tears, rolling them and batting my eyes to avoid any complications after Katie spent so much time working on it. "I swear... If I see you cry before a toast or something, I'm never throwing you a party again."

"These are important things I want you to know, Emily," she scolded me lightly. "I'm just so proud of you." She squeezed me and kissed my cheek.

"You're going to ruin my make-up," I warned. "And then I'm telling Katie it was your fault."

"Okay, okay, let's not get hasty," she straightened up in the mirror. I watched her adjust her earring and remembered being seven, and laying on my tummy in her bed when she went out for a night. I was so afraid she wasn't coming back, just like my real mother, just like the foster families, just like everyone, that the babysitter couldn't get me to leave the bed when it was time to sleep. "We should get out there," she decided. "Everyone is here, I suspect."

"I love you, Mom," I kissed her cheek and stood before her. I adjusted her necklace, twisting the clasp behind her. When I hugged her I told her shoulders thank you, softly. So soft that only shoulders can hear it. I think it was a thank you for coming home that night when I was seven. I think it was a thank you for coming home every night. I think it was a thank you that I was able to be apart of this all. I think it was a thank you for being proud of me. I think it was a thank you for things I wasn't even sure of yet.

"I love you, too, Emmy," she assured me. "Now, would you make an entrance with me?" She had a devious smile now. Sometimes my dad wouldn't catch himself and tell me and Katie that we would get that smile, and it assured me that things aren't all genetic, and you inherit bits of the world and love and everything at all times.

"Of course," I held out my elbow for her to link hers. "Enough of this mushy shit."

"Exactly," she laughed and we made our way down the hall towards the noise outside. Katie and I had spent the entire day in the back yard, stringing lights, setting up tables, decorating, directing caterers she hired, placing the dj booth. We transformed the yard while we sent our parents out for the day to see a movie and have lunch on us. Katie always felt obligated to do big things on big events. She was the family member assigned to planning all holidays because she ran a ship-shape schedule and was the one who cared about the details, while the rest of us were useless, and would have been happy with leftover pizza on Thanksgiving, so long as a rousing game of football was played after.

"Oh my goodness," Mom gasped beside me when I walked her through the patio doors. "It looks amazing. You girls are amazing."

"We try," I beamed.

Our tiny backyard was filled with friends and family who could make it. The lights twinkled above us, strung to remind them of a French bistro, like the ones they fell in love under on their honeymoon. It was their favorite memory, I think, so we tried to give it to them as best we could in our tiny backyard and with limited funds. Everyone was dressed to kill. The black suits, the dresses that sparkled, the champagne flutes the flowers. It all hung about and for tonight the backyard that we used to make mudpies in was an adult playground, and I was very aware of our new place in society as such.

"Hi kiddo, who's your gorgeous friend?" Dad approached through the crowd eagerly. "And have we met before?" Mom blushed. I was beyond being embarrassed by their goofy, wonderful love.

"You look handsome, Pops," I gave him a hug as Mom dropped my arm. "And you smell so good."

"You stop," he played. "You look completely mesmerizing, Chickadee. Between you and your sister, I'm looking into a gun license or the nunnery, it's your choice."

"Well, you'd be an ugly nun," I returned, my old time, Stooges voice intact.

"A real wise guy, we raised," he elbowed my mom. "Clearly from your side."

"Clearly," she agreed and hugged his side, fitting under his arm. I grabbed flutes of champaign and handed them a pair.

"And with that performance, I shall retire to the other guests," I bowed out in exaggerated fashion, tipping my fake hat graciously. "Congratulations, love birds."

It was not hard to slink back into the crowd of well-wishers that greeted my parents, especially after the speakers announced that they were together and everyone applauded. I simply let them have their moment, downed my drink, and found Katie approaching.

"Your friends are over that way," she nudged her head, not really paying attention.

"You met them? I asked, bewildered slightly.

"Yes," she rolled her eyes. "Now how do Mom and Dad like it?"

"They love it. You did an amazing job planning it," I gave her a smile and the rest of my new drink. "I didn't think we knew so many people." The crowd ebbed and flowed around us.

"Me neither," she shrugged. "You look great. I'm going to find them and say hello. Don't go far, we have the toast, and their dance."

"Yes ma'am."

She was gone before I think she heard it. Slowly I made my way in the direction that she had pointed. I saw Freddie first, his giraffe like body giving way above the crowd. Sitting in the cushion chairs in the corner with him, drinks in hand, were Effy and Naomi. I paused before I reached them, surveying. I was a bit stricken by Naomi; her hair, her skin, her knees, her legs, her nose, her everything, there was no detail too small for me to enjoy.

"Hello," I waved and approached finally after my feet decided to move again. "I'm so glad you all made it! Freddie, you look great," I hugged him as he complimented me and returned to his seat next to Effy, who I greeted next. "Holy crap, you're gorgeous," I whispered as I hugged her, earning a laugh. "I'm sorry," I finally turned stone face when I turned to Naomi. "I'm really sorry," I offered. "I didn't think it would be this busy, but Katie... and well... just Katie. You look..." I tried not to stare again as she hugged me. "You look breathtaking. You are actually breathtaking." I was exhausted at how much I had spoken.

"You too," Naomi assured me, scooting so I could take the seat next to her.

"You need a drink," Effy grabbed some for us and I gulped it greedily until she handed me another. "Busy night?"

"Busy five minutes," I corrected. "I'm just glad you all made it."

I knew Naomi was watching me. I could feel her eyes. I felt them sometimes and it made me blush because I wasn't sure what she was seeing, and that is daunting.

"Did you grow up here?" Freddie asked, suddenly.

"It's a pretty house," Effy added, surveying quietly.

"I moved here when I was six," I nodded.

"I actually lived about four blocks over and down a few more, for a few years," he leaned towards me. We all formed our own little group amidst the mingling and quiet music. "We probably played as kids at least once or twice."

"It wouldn't surprise me," I smiled. He was happy, and when he was it was a bit contagious.

We all fell into laughing as if we were normal. I suppose we were. This is what normal felt like, deep down. It was new and exciting all over again because the past month had been the most off the wall month I've had in a long time. But now, here we were, talking and drinking and enjoying being alive for one night in dressed and suits and celebrating that moment intently.

"So you call them Mom and Dad?" Naomi asked, turning towards me. Her mannerisms were different tonight, lighter and freer than normal. Perhaps it was the third glass of champaign.

"Yup," I nodded. "They've been such for a long time now. They're my mom and dad and I love them."

"What do they do?" she continued. She was interested and happy, eagerly excited about any answers.

"My mom's a teacher, and Dad's a public defender," I explained. I looked over to see that Effy and Freddie were in their own conversation. Naomi leaned a bit closer.

"Those are good jobs," she decided. I agreed. "They look happy," she turned to find them in the distance.

"They are," I promised. "How are you?" I returned, meeting her eyes. She was close and I liked it. We whispered even though there was so much noise around us. It meant that I got to move to her ear and stare at exposed skin. It meant that I got to lean my head close to hers.

"Good," she assured me. "You weren't around much this week."

"I was busy with this, and just life I had to catch up on," I explained. I wanted to touch her but I didn't know how. "I figured you would want to get on normally too."

"You are normal," she whispered to herself, not leaning to my ear as she had before. "I thought." I just watched her lips move.

I moved closer to her. Our knees touched.

"I have had a few glasses of champaign," I smiled. She was close. "But that is not just the reason I want to kiss you, just the reason I'm telling you." I saw her blush and I liked that too. We were giggly messes at that point. I was ecstatic because she wanted me to me normal. She was just happy I think to be away and free.

All I know was that time passed. Old time music, heavy in strings and orchestra flowed through the party. Glasses clanged and bodies swayed among the ebbing crowd, and I sat with Naomi in the corner and we laughed and talked. It was, perhaps, the first conversation that was not heavy between us. Everything before was inundated with this and that regarding that and this; worry and sorrow and guilt raged, normally, which should not have been normal. But now, there was a new normal, away from normalcy. She told me about her work, as much as I could understand, and her class schedule the following semester. She asked me questions about my family, about Katie and what we did when we were kids, my real parents, my parents, my apartment, my everything.

I wasn't sure how long it had been, but when I looked up, Effy and Freddie were no where in sight and Katie was approaching. It sobered me somewhat. I felt Naomi stir beside me with the bristling of my bones.

"I've been looking all over," Katie huffed.

"Hello," I slowed her down. "Katie, this is Naomi."

"We've met," Katie retorted, pulling me up. "We have to do the toast and cake."

"Right," I lept up with her. "Have you seen Effy and Freddie?"

"Who?" she adjusted my hair.

"The couple that were here before," I explained, pushing her hands away. She shook her head. I turned back to Naomi.

"Go on," she stood, giving me a small smile. "The party cannot wait."

"You'll be-" I started. Katie pulled at me. "Katie, I'm coming," I retorted as she pulled.

"We've been looking for you," she explained. "You hid away with her," she nudged her head.

"Naomi," I explained again. "We were just talking and relaxing."

"I get it," she shrugged. I didn't think she did.

Katie and I arrived through the crowd to the top of the stairs on the porch. I was suddenly nervous. The crowd continued to celebrate in the night and I was overtaken by just what we had done and how wonderful it all felt. The night was tinged with a certain type of correctness, not so much as in right, but simply as something that felt as if the worries were at the door and we were where we needed to be in the universe. The cares were at the door, they'd be there tomorrow, but even then, they didn't seem like a problem. It was a night you prepare for, you want to give it your all for another, and then it happens, and you're relieved, and you carry that with you, a sense of completion and connection with everything. Or something. Much like nothing bad had happened before and wouldn't again. It was the beautiful afternoon after a week of rain, where you feel the sun for the first time after misery and cold drizzle, and now, in the clear night, tinted with shimmering lights and up above a clear sky hidden by city light, but still there and providing a wondrous breeze, I think I felt a sense of restarting. I'd met Naomi under different circumstances, or at least we'd passed the bad ones somewhat. Maybe that put me on cloud nine. Maybe it was my parents smiling and laughing as Katie retrieved them. Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was Effy and Freddie dancing slowly, swaying to and fro, completely alone within themselves to the music. Maybe it was none of it at all.

"Are you having a nice time?" I asked Mom as she made it to the porch.

"Oh Emily," she hugged me again. "I am having an amazing time. I've never had anything like this." I knew that already.

"We have one more surprise," Katie was beaming, in her element.

"We can't take anymore, kid," Dad joined our circle.

"Just stand there," Katie situated them.

As if cued, the dj stopped and directed attention to us. I'd forgotten about this part.

"Hi everyone," Katie began as everyone quieted. "First, I'd love to thank everyone who made it to celebrate my parents." There was some applause I joined. "Twenty-five years," she started again. "I can't believe it," she sighed. "It's kind of amazing to see that these days, isn't it? And still to this day, I am awed of their love. I'm so grateful we are able to come together to remember and prepare for another twenty-five. When I was little, I used to love hearing my dad tell me the story of how they met. You wouldn't think he's the biggest romantic, but he's had you all fooled. It was a fairy tale of eyes locking, and princes and princesses and happily every afters. I never doubted that that was what it actually was. Til I was eighteen I think, I realized I carried that notion. I'm a bit older, and I'd like to say it's changed. It hasn't. I still see it on their faces." Katie handed me the floor.

"We've been with our parents for over sixteen years," I started. "And from the first day, I knew they were different. They are the kind of people that are so in love it just works, you know? They've kind of ruined Katie and I when it comes to that. We've grown up seeing what love is," I looked at them. They were smiling and bewildered by our outpouring. "And now we can't settle. We know what it takes to make it last, and they show us every day. We couldn't have picked better parents, or I suppose been luckier to have been picked by our parents." There was some laughter in the audience. I raised a glass. "Please, everyone who came to celebrate and party to their love, raise a glass of whatever you'd like." I watched arms raise. "To Henry and Jane Fitch, a very Happy Anniversary, and may we all be here again in twenty-five more to celebrate again and be reminded of what true love looks like."

A chorus of cheers and applause erupted followed shortly by the tinkling of glasses, forcing my parents to kiss and earn even more applause.

"Now before we send you all back to the bar," Katie interrupted the general air of celebration, "What good is a party without cake?"

A cart rolled out from the kitchen with my parents original wedding topper firmly in place. They hugged us tightly. We would give them our present later. A second honeymoon. Mom would scream and Dad would pack.

"I love you both," Mom told us as she squeezed. "I think this might be the best night of my life." She cupped both of our cheeks. "You know how to make your old mom feel like a million bucks."

"We both love you," Dad hugged us as well. "You're off party duty, go celebrate."

Tinkling of glasses started again and they kissed again.

I think it was a happiness on a night that simply fills up ones cup after it has gone bone dry. Like a thirst on a hot day when you can barely walk without sweating out of your shirt, and you let the yard hose run for a few seconds before putting it to your lips and gulping eagerly at the cool water and it cools your insides until you are a walking water tank, refreshed and happy.

I soaked up the moment with my parents like a kid after a playground date at the water hose.

As they cut into the cake I made my way back to the corner. I could feel the smile on my face and the skip in my step. Even when I found it empty, I didn't lose it, but just kept looking because I wanted to tell Naomi that there is still happiness in the world, if she wasn't sure, and I'd discovered it on the porch, telling my parents that I loved them, and that they gave me hope for a wondrous type of love that surpasses all else, because I've seen it happen. And in that there was a happiness of revelation.

It all ran through my head on loop, quickly and dizzingly.

"Have you seen Naomi?" I found Effy and Freddie talking to a couple in the yard.

"Not for a while," she explained. "That was a lovely toast," she assured me.

"Thank you," I smiled. "I have to tell her something."

"I think she went to the bathroom," Freddie pointed towards the house.

"Thank you," I was gone again.

The house was relatively quiet, only a few stray couples or groups had staggered in to spread out and have a quieter setting. Our house wasn't large by any means. I searched the downstairs, checked the line for the bathroom downstairs by the kitchen, checked the front yard before lifting the rope Katie placed on the stairs, and making my way up.

A light at the top of the stairs pointed me in the right direction. Slowly, I knocked and pushed the door to my old room open.

"Naomi?" I asked before it opened completely.

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up from sitting on the end of the small bed. "I just wanted some quiet."

"It's fine," I promised. I forgot everything I wanted to tell her, so I just smiled.

"That was a lovely toast," she fiddled with her fingers.

"Thank you," I smiled again, bigger, remembering.

"I like your room," she looked about, to and fro.

"I have to tell you something," I took a step towards her.

"We've run out of champaign?" she pretended to be mortified.

"No," I promised.

I kissed her. I leaned forward and kissed her swiftly. I held her neck, my fingers ran to her shoulders and back to the very roots of her hair while I kissed her and my feet moved a bit closer.

She kissed me back, harder, hands pushing the hair from my face, running through my temples, over my cheeks. I felt a tingle and sense of adoration and happiness. I wanted to give her that happiness.

We kissed and broke apart only when breathing was too impossible to avoid.

"Naomi!" I heard from down stairs.

"Wow," I whispered, forehead against hers. All I saw was blue and it was wondrous. She smiled a goofy smile. I liked it.

"We're heading out." It was Effy.

"I should go," she sighed. She kissed me again.

"Are you happy?" I asked as she pulled away finally. I watched her think about it.

"Yes," she nodded. "As much as I think one can hope."

"Bye," I waved weakly.

"Bye," she smiled and disappeared.

I collapsed on my twin-sized bed and stared at the ceiling.


	7. Carry Your Will

**VII: Carry Your Will_  
_**

_I will cherish this._  
_I will be humble again._  
_What will it take to get me to get where I'm going?_  
_Do you know the way?_  
_Do you know when the tunnel ends?  
__Lord have mercy on me.__  
_

My father was just as crazy as I was, or so it seemed by his book, or at least the first one I'd picked up and somewhat skimmed repeatedly. Maybe he was just as crazy as I felt. I didn't think I was crazy because I would have days and even the past few weeks, where everything was reasonable and orderly and most importantly normal. Of course all of that normalcy was accented by days that left me terrified to read my father's writing because it seemed like home. And I remembered the days that he would have where we went to the park and stayed on the swings until the street lights came on, or when the zoo would have to close in order to get rid of us. Those were shuffled between days where I imagine he saw his dead mom and tried to run away, couldn't hear anything at all and squeezed his head until he wanted to collapse and often did.

The more I felt like him, or at least thought I understood him, the more terrified I became. I hadn't read an entire page, yet I was crippled with comparison.

The heat was making the darkness sizzle outside, and that didn't help at all. I listened from the sun room under the fan that whirred lethargically above me. Occasionally I would set down the book, stare at it, waiting for it to tell me things, call myself a coward, pick it up again, flip through the pages, set it down once more. I spent more time staring at the road outside the house and listening to the summer night.

I felt like a puppy, impatiently waiting for a certain knock at the door. This left me pacing in the form of my cycle with the book and wondering about what was sitting between each page. It left me rattled. Possibility left me rattled. The inkling of normalcy, the absence of my mom from the house, the schedule I'd developed, the somewhat normal waking and sleeping hours, it all left me rattled in the sense that it was fleeting, or at least held the feeling of uncertainty. Emily left me rattled.

Things had progressed much the same over the past few weeks. She would come around every so often. Twice she brought me lunch while I worked at school in a crowded office in the basement with the wall that I covered in papers of work that I couldn't quite get to connect in a coherent way. It was nice all over because she made delicious sandwiches and I got to see her. We went for walks, sometimes. Sometimes she would hold my hand. Mostly, she would stop by and have some milk and cookies with me while I worked at the table, and we would be quiet. I think she came by when I was in the attic once. I couldn't see her. There were more kisses though, and that was alright with me because they felt like being alive and just as fleeting, as if they were tied to the normalcy as well, almost required to be who I wanted to be. And now I felt like a puppy.

Again I skimmed the chapter titles and stretched out along the sofa, the summer evening lulling me into a contemplative, and altogether useless mood that was unshakeable. It might have been the fact that Emily was leaving in a week. It could have been the blinding headache, the heat, the day, the moment, the complexity of the novel I'd refused to start, my attachment to such. It was most likely the unfastenable feeling of my mom, tinting the day and reminding me at every corner how I missed her, leaving me dull and desensitized and incapable of existing. It most likely was the fact that Emily was on her way and I was going crazy biding my time.

Between the book and the dull throbbing in my head, I was lost in the slow moving ticking of the clock and wondering what the next week would bring, as well as what the past two months had brought. Questions echoed through my head about everything, overthinking this and that, and both this and that, or that and this. It was a loop that hurt my brain stem, and lulled me into a fitful sleep, anchored by the weight of the paperback on my chest.

"...sleeping," I heard, quietly. "...you sleeping?" It came again. I felt hands on my cheeks. They felt so nice I burrowed my shoulders deeper into the couch. "Are you sleeping, Naomi?" Emily whispered, close to my face. A few seconds later I felt her pinch my nose until my eyes opened with confusion. My cheeks blew out.

"What are you doing?" I nasally slurred. I just saw her outline in the dusky evening shade. Emily giggled and allowed me to adjust to the light to find her. The book dropped to the ground with a thud as I sit up.

"_The Weeping of the_ _Bridge_," Emily read the title. It woke me. "How do you like it?"

"The pages are nice, and the cover is quite lovely," I explained. "Some of the chapter titles seem relatable." I watched her mull it over before gently, almost reverentially setting the book on the table beside the couch.

"You haven't enjoyed the content?" she was a bit surprised.

"Haven't braved it yet," I corrected. "It's a bit daunting." She debated saying anything else.

"My mom sent over a plate," she pulled at me. I was alarmed that she didn't comment on the book or my choice to hold it with the intention of possibly reading it. It made me nervous, as if she were biting her tongue about something that I could not imagine. Maybe it was a plot twist.

"Of food?" I asked dumbly, squinting against the light in the hallway. It was not late at all, but the sudden awakening from the doze I'd been trapped in weakly made the world feel blurred to a degree, or like water was in my eyes and ears.

"No, of batteries," she rolled her eyes. "Yes, food. You got our own plate of Fitch Family Dinner Night leftovers."

"How was it?" I stopped being led when we reached the destination of the kitchen. The house was quiet save for Emily's movements. I stood stark still in the doorway, debating if I was dreaming or this was real. I felt like a goldfish.

While she talked about her dinner and family I pulled at my hair and squinted my eyes to get rid of the blur. She clamored about making my plate hot, pouring drinks and cleaning up the leftover dishes, and I stood for fear of moving an inch would cause it all to dissipate. Anxiety hung in my hair and draped my body with desensitized receptors that were anything but.

"Come sit," she set me a place at the island. She was in and out of the fridge grabbing us drinks while my feet slowly moved towards the seat. "I saw the dining room."

"I moved the boxes to the basement," I explained, surveying the plate and swallowing roughly.

"You didn't go through them?" she asked nonchalantly.

"No, I did a bit," I started eating. Her face lit up.

It was not lost on me that we were sitting in the same places we'd been when we met officially. That night, with the thunder and the lightening and the smashing I'd done to the kitchen. It seemed so far away, yet so close. I could be the same person right now. I was that same person right now.

"That's great," she smiled at me. "How are you?"

"Fine," I nodded, stuffing food in my mouth and staring at my fork. "It was just a few. Then I stopped."

"But you're alright?" she restated the question in a slightly different way. It was supposed to mean 'do you feel like you're going to wreck the kitchen again?' and I couldn't tell her completely no.

"Yes," I nodded again. "I pulled my mom's work journal for you."

"W-w-why?" she stuttered slightly. "I don't... I couldn't have anything of hers. No," she continued. "Just box it. Keep it."

"She'd want you to have it," I explained. "Her recommendation for you for med school was the last entry. I think it's a sign. I won't fight a sign. I read it. There's nothing in there for me."

"My what?" I felt her eagerness.

"Just take it?" I looked at her and tried to beg in a polite and sincere way. She nodded and gulped from her bottle eagerly.

We were quiet, save for the scraping of my fork on the plate and Emily's fiddling fingers with her bottle on the countertop. Still, it prevailed when I emptied my plate and rinsed it in the sink.

"Where are Effy and Freddie?" Emily asked as I walked towards her warily.

"They went to some party. They'll be home late." I hugged her tiny frame as she sat on the stool. She looked tired. Sometimes I didn't notice things like that, and I should have because those are important things. She noticed things like when to feed me when even I forget. "Thank you for food."

"That was my mom," she ducked her head slightly. I felt her hand on my hip for a second before it went back to her lap awkwardly. "I almost didn't think I'd make it out of the house. She was talking my ear off about our trip to school." I nodded. "I am terrified to read your mom's journal."

"Yeah, you looked stressed," I agreed. "I'm sorry." My mother stood behind me and told me to give Emily the journal. That was stressful. Telling Emily that was the reason I was giving it to her would make her life even more stressful, so I didn't tell her. That was a white lie that changed everything, if you think about it.

"You're not stressful," she chided me. I like this. I liked standing there with her. I liked the way my arms fit on her shoulders. I just liked how nice it felt, and how every moment was like the umbrella and my shoulders could relax. I felt her knees squeeze the sides of my thighs. I gave her look and earned a small laugh. "You're really not stressful. Worrying about someone isn't stressful."

"It is," I disagreed.

"No," she shook her head vehemently.

"I worry about you, and it's stressful. You've always crashed into a bus or been abducted into a circus." Emily laughed and covered her mouth quickly to not hurt my pride too deeply.

"That's a different kind of stress," she explained. "Don't worry. I'm wary of circuses." I earned a kiss on my cheek as she stood. "Come on, let's go watch a movie."

We started the movie sitting on opposite sides of the couch. But Emily talked throughout, leaning and relaxing as the movie continued until she was leaning against my side, head lulling slightly. I stared at the book on the coffee table. I could not pay attention to much because I focused on making my body as still as possible so Emily wouldn't move. My shoulder felt heavy under her, and tingled at times, but I was still. I focused on every fiber of my nerves to make them stop any motion. Two months ago I threw things at her and she cleaned up flour from the nooks in the floor tiles. Then I saw her in that dress at her parent's anniversary. I saw her eyes when she spoke to them. I saw them when she looked at me sometimes. I saw her and I wanted to see more. I think that's important things. I stared at the book again because I wanted to know if it would tell me things I should know about this situation I found myself precariously lagging through, or if it said the same things- that my father looked at my mom and felt her eyes and she cleaned up his cuts when he was fool enough to smash glassware.

More than anything, I was afraid at all times that Emily could read it all across my face like an LCD sign outside of a drug store telling the specials of the week. But I liked that she talked through movies, and I liked that she sat with me, and I liked that we were friends.

"What did you think?" Emily stirred beside me. Her hand was on my thigh. She placed it there somewhere before the final third of the movie. I don't think she realized, or realized that I had realized.

"I liked it," I smiled and lied at the same time. People shouldn't be able to do that. Emily yawned and pushed her hair from her eyes languidly.

"Thank you for waiting for me to watch it," she smiled sleepily. It was actually Freddie's movie that she saw once in passing yesterday. I didn't tell her that either. I think because those were just white lies. They would not change the course of the world, but then again they did already, and that's something that shouldn't be overlooked despite their name.

"No problem," I assured her.

Time is the trickiest thing that has ever existed. The movie was too long and too short. This moment was both right and wrong. It was a complex dichotomy of everything it means to be alive and it was stretched out to the far reaches of the world in the tiniest frames of the ticking of a watch.

"I'm so relaxed," Emily stretched beside me, burrowing her shoulders near my shoulder. "This is exactly what I needed."

"A movie on an uncomfortable couch?"

"Yes," she agreed. "I'm just exhausted with packing and planning on moving."

"I've never moved," I sighed. I couldn't imagine.

"I'm jealous," Emily retorted.

"Don't be."

We were still and quiet while the credits rolled and wrapped up to the title screen again, which played on repeat.

"I should head home," Emily finally moved, standing and stretching her hands upwards with a yawn.

"How?"

"I suspect I will have a lovely stroll," she checked her watch.

"Okay, you can stay," I decided. "Yeah, that works. You can stay."

"No, I couldn't."

"It's late," I reminded her. I didn't let her argue, at least not to my face. I moved down the hall, turning off the kitchen light as I went.

"Naomi, stop," Emily laughed exasperatedly. "I can go home. You're being ridiculous." I wasn't listening because she would talk me out of this courage I somehow developed for the moment to invite her to stay. It was platonic and natural.

"Is it alright with you?" I asked suddenly before we reached my door. Emily stopped, flush with my back, mouth still slightly open from protesting.

"Well, yeah..." she trailed off. "I just... it's no worries. I can go."

"Think about it," I leaned against my door. "It is very late. Cabs are expensive. It's just one night." I watched her think about it. I watched her relent.

We were quiet, still, as I moved about my room, handing her extra clothes to sleep in and rummaging for extras of this and that for the bathroom. She changed and I changed, though we were not together. It was quiet. I couldn't tell if we were afraid to make a noise or speak, but I knew that I was personally. Collectively, I imagined it was the same.

"Can I get you anything else?" I offered as we pulled back the blankets on my bed.

Suddenly, I felt like I was Emily, and I was doing something nice, and it felt kind of nice, to be nice. And she looked cute.

She shook her head and climbed in on the opposite side from me. I joined her and turned off the light. I felt her weight in the bed when there normally was nothing there except maybe some books or my laptop. Now, that side moved. Her legs adjusted and she pulled on the sheets slightly. It was all not normal.

"Goodnight, Emily," I whispered, turning away from her onto my side. I was narrow as a board on the edge of the bed to be hospitable. I stared at the alarm clock.

"You have to know that I like you," Emily whispered. I felt her turn as well. I nodded to myself slightly.

"That would explain some of it," I sighed.

"Just some?" she shifted.

"I don't know why," I moved to face the ceiling again. I felt her ribs shake with a small laugh.

"Because... I'm not sure..." she answered quite honestly. "Because you're one of the most honest and genuine and interesting people I've ever met."

"Because I'm a bit mad," I shuddered.

"Nah," she assured me surprisingly well for such a dismissive tone. "You're not mad. Or crazy. Or any sort of the same." I rolled my eyes to myself and kept them closed as if that would make me not hear what she was saying. She didn't know the half of it.

"Maybe," was all I could agree.

Slowly, I felt her move until just her cheek was propped against my shoulder and I could feel her breath occasionally through my shirt. Her fingers slid along my arm and wound into my own. I stopped breathing completely.

"This feels nice," I stated. I felt tense, as if my body would betray it.

"Yes," she agreed, just as tense.

"You're leaving in a week."

"Yeah," she nodded into my shoulder. "I am."

"That kind of stinks for me."

"Yeah," she nodded again.

"You have to know that I like you," I whispered, squinching my eyes shut so tight I was neon pulsations portrayed across my eyelids.

"Yeah," again. "I wasn't positive, but I'd hoped."

"Quite a sticky wicket," I took a deep breath, finally relieving my aching lungs.

"Quite," she yawned. "Let's figure it out in the morning."

"Okay." I yawned as well.

I felt Emily kiss my cheek and I fell asleep with her dozing on my shoulder.

There was something wonderful about time at this moment.


End file.
